


A settled affair

by MedeaV



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1790s England, Affairs, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Bucky and Steve are in the military, F/M, Natasha is Russian Nobility, Nick Fury owns a health resort, Sam trains ponies, This is not a very good description of the story, Tragic Romance, one chapter with smut (20), one instance of domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2019-11-13 10:34:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 52,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18030095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MedeaV/pseuds/MedeaV
Summary: When Natalia “please, call me Natasha” Romanova, almost a Russian princess, insanely wealthy, impossible to overlook, arrives in England to stay with her uncle, Bucky really can't do anything else than fall in love with her. Much to his friends' disdain, because Natalia Romanova is the fiancée of Duke Alexei Shostakov, whom she is to marry upon her return to Russia. And Bucky is nothing but a simple army officer, renowned for his skills with a sword.When Natalia thus asks him to teach her, secretly, of course, he can't say no, even though he knows it's a terrible idea. As they meet privately, again and again, and inch closer and closer, Natasha also builds a deep friendship with Sharon, who keeps postponing her wedding with Steve. But while they become increasingly entangled, they all know it is going to end eventually.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s impossible to overlook her.

Natalia “please, call me Natasha” Romanova is easily the most beautiful lady in London this summer, a fact that most people agree on. Her Russian accent makes for a lot of talking among the noble class and whether you think it completely exaggerated or incredibly charming, you must have an opinion on the matter.

Bucky doesn’t care whether or not her mannerism is intended or natural, he has an insane crush on her. Much to Steve’s disdain, because Natalia Romanova is the fiancée of Duke Alexei Shostakov, whom she is to marry upon her return to Russia. Bucky suggested that maybe, this is the reason for her constantly postponed return, but Steve vehemently disagreed, arguing that her extended holidays don’t mean any change to her future plans as well as her matrimonial ambitions. Bucky rolled his eyes and instantly forgot everything Steve had said.

Tonight, there is a ball at the Wilsons’ country house and Natalia Romanova is attending in a magnificent dark blue gown and white gloves that reach just above her elbows. Her red curls are skilfully arranged around her head, an expensive pearl necklace is winding around her slender neck and Bucky is staring mercilessly.

“Stop drooling, Barnes,” orders a voice belonging to the heir of the Wilson family, Sam. Sam is a good friend of Steve and, by extension, Bucky. He also agrees with Steve that Bucky’s emotional investment in Natalia Romanova is becoming ridiculous.

“I’m not drooling,” Bucky insists, wiping his mouth clean automatically. He grabs a drink and his eyes wander by themselves back to the amazing redhead. “I am… looking.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, sure. Try not to look any harder or your eyes will fall out.”

Bucky scoffs. Natalia Romanova makes her way from group to group, exchanging warm greetings and engaging in polite conversation. The way she bows her head, her pearl earrings dangling…

“So, did you finally talk to her?” Sam’s voice interrupts his thoughts.

“Steve is already with Sharon?” Bucky asks back.

“Wait, wait, that was dodging,” Sam scolded. “Yes, of course he is, but wait, did you actually talk to her?”

“I tried,” Bucky mumbles into his glass, frowning.

“Poor boy,” Sam says in his most soothing voice. “But you are aware that already next year, she is going to be far away in icy Russia?”

“Yes, I am aware,” Bucky snaps before deliberately calming himself. “I am aware.”

Sam sighs. “And what did you say to her?”

“Nothing, I bumped into a servant who then spilled wine all over her dress,” Bucky admits quietly. “And then I panicked and hid in the kitchen the whole evening.”

Sam visibly tries not to laugh but fails. “Good Lord, you’re really one of a kind, aren’t you?”

Bucky pouts, stepping to the side so he can continue watching Natalia Romanova without being seen. “It’s not funny.”

“Believe me, it is,” Sam assures him, taking a sip of his wine. “You’re such a gracious swordfighter but within a few feet of that woman, you become a clumsy oaf. It’s hilarious.”

“Most definitely not,” Bucky insists.

“Well, I have bad news for you.” Sam puts on a grave expression. “I heard that your dear Lady Natalia rejected Slitherbourne’s courting last week. That has to be the twelfth one in half a year.”

Bucky tries not to react visibly but he is definitely listening. “How does that qualify as news? She has a fiancé after all.”

“In Russia,” Sam specifies. “Which is at least half a year’s journey- wait, why am I the one telling you this and not the other way round?”

“I don’t know, why are you constantly telling me that she rejected about  _ every  _ nobleman in London-”

“Sergeant Barrrnes”, a female voice with a really purring _ rrr  _ interrupts.

Of course it has to be Natalia Romanova, smiling as she curtsies and adds: “Mister Wilson, it is trrruely a pleasure to be at your ball tonight.”

Sam reacts lightning fast and bows his head. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Romanoff. I believe you already have been introduced to Sergeant Barnes. Would you be so kind to excuse me?”

Bucky shoots him a pleading look but Sam shrugs unapologetically, walking over to where Steve and Sharon are wooing each other. What a great friend. Bucky’s longing gaze follows him while he tries not to faint out of excitement.

“Well, Mister Barrrnes,” Natalia Romanova purrs with her incredible accent, turning his name into something exotic and exciting. “I do believe you owe me an apology.”

Bucky turns to her reluctantly, his brain delivering nothing but nonsense: “Excuse me, for what?”

“You ruined my dress,” Natalia says softly. “Rrred wine on silk. A deadly combination.”

“Ah.” Bucky shakes his head, trying to ignore the fact that Sam, Steve and Sharon have started to make excited gestures in his direction. “Well, my heartfelt apologies. I do believe that dark colours are a better fit for you, if this offers you any comfort.”

Natalia’s smile is only innocent on the surface, as he notices from close by. “Why, thank you, Serrrgeant Barrrnes.”

Bucky looks around and throws all caution out of the window. “You know, I always found it funny that you speak almost perfect English, yet  _ somehow  _ can’t seem to get rid of that accent.”

“What can I say?” Natasha responds, almost all traces of her accent vanished instantly. She takes the drink out of his hands and takes the last sip. “The men like it. Quite a lot, as it appears.”

“Is all of this a game to you?” Bucky asks, failing not to stare at her beautiful slender fingers wrapped around his glass. “Attracting everyone’s desires only to reject them in the end?”

“Just look at it this way.” Natalia hands the empty glass to a passing waiter he hasn’t noticed earlier. “This might be my last chance to play.”

Bucky’s heart sinks, even though he already knew that. “Why, are you going back to Russia?”

“Sooner or later.” Natalia’s gaze drifts to his dear friends, who immediately try to look inconspicuous but fail miserably. “Doesn’t matter. At some point, I will go back.”

“And you don’t want to?” Bucky continues asking, maybe a bit too hopeful.

Natalia smiles at him in a way that hides her real emotions. “It does not matter what I wish for. I have to be in line with my family.” She winks. “So, I play as long as I can.”

If she is trying to make Bucky feel bad for her, it is working. “But what about all the people you hurt in your wake? Don’t they count?”

“Oh, boy, they will get over it,” Natalia mutters. “They really do. I heard Mister Slitherbourne started wooing the daughter of Lord Murdock. If I were him, I would have waited a few more weeks. It would make her look less like a second choice then.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Still. As you said, your last chance to do things of your own volition, and you waste it on this superficial spiel with people you don’t even care about?”

“Do I hear an offer in that, Mister Barnes?” Natalia teases, pushing a few loose curls behind her ear. “Are you really so desperate to have your heart broken?”

_ Yes,  _ his mind supplies but he doesn’t say that out loud. “I was talking about you, Miss Romanova. Don’t make this about me.”

“Well, I am glad to hear that.” Natalia sounds carefully neutral. “As a commitment to a simple Sergeant would be far below my  _ niveau.” _

Of course she speaks French. Bucky pretends not to be hurt. “Well, with marrying a Duke, a lot of things must seem like a downgrading.”

“Which is why my family will not settle with anything lesser.” Natalia sighs. “Neither will I.”

“Got it, you don’t want me to woo you,” James states a little too aggressively. “You couldn’t have made that shorter, could you?”

“I could have, but that would have dampened your friends’ reaction,” Natalia argues, smiling at the sight of Sharon clutching Steve’s arm in sheer excitement. “You seem to be very close with them. First and foremost Captain Rogers.”

“You could say that,” Bucky agrees, thinking about Steve’s stupid talent to get into fights. “Where are you going with this?”

“Oh dear, I already have broken your heart, haven’t I?” Natalia shakes her head with a sad smile. “I am sorry. Anyway, I saw your duel with Rumlow, though I don’t remember the reason for it. It must have been something about Miss Carter.”

The reason was that Rumlow is a disrespectful son of a bitch, but Bucky can’t say that to her. “He deserved it.”

“Oh, I’ve met Rumlow, I have no doubts about that.” Natalia smiles. “But your skills are impressive. I want you to teach me.”

She can’t be serious. “Teach you what?”

“Ballet dancing,” Natalia answers, overflowing with sarcasm. “Sword fighting of course.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that. “I… I can’t do that.”

“So you believe women are in general unfit for physical activity?” Natalia prompts.

Bucky can almost feel Sharon slam her elbow between his ribs. He unconsciously rubs his side. “No, but… is it a usual thing in Russia for women to learn sword fighting?”

“Well, if I already had someone ready to teach me, I wouldn’t have to convince you, right?” Natalia smiles.

Bucky snorts. “Right. Thank you for letting me know that I’m the second choice.”

Natalia laughs briefly. “If it comforts you, you are the first person whom I have asked.”

Well, that is… something? “Great. Why do you even want to learn that?”

“Why not?” Natalia shoots back. “It should be more entertaining than constantly crushing other people’s dreams. And I would prefer to be able to look after myself.”

Bucky understands that sentiment, but he still doesn’t think any of this is a good idea. Which doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want it. “People will talk. Ladies like you aren’t supposed to do that.”

“If I cared about what people say, I wouldn’t talk to you for so long right in front of their eyes,” Natalia responds briskly. “Soon, I will be a Russian Duchess who doesn’t have to care what the lower classes think of her anyway.” She smiles. “Besides, I was hoping to rely on your discretion.”

Oh, this is really a horrible idea, isn’t it? “I… I think I can do that.”

Natalia’s smile turns even brighter. “Really? That is good to know. Send me a letter as soon as you are ready, I’ll make time.”

There shouldn’t be this blooming feeling in his chest, just for being placed so high among her priorities. After all, she has made the nature of her interest very clear. “Will you? I can find a place that meets your standards for discretion.”

Natalia leans forward a little bit and for a moment, Bucky thinks she is going to kiss him on the cheek and dies inwardly. Of course, she only whispers: “You should get back to your friends. They seem very excited for the news. Besides, I’ll have to rely on their discretion as well.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Well, she certainly has quite the guts, your Natalia,” Sam remarks as the coach rolls into the yard in front of the stables. “I didn’t think she would actually show up.”

Bucky sighs, fiddling with his sheath. “I didn’t either. But you read her note.”

“How was I supposed to know she would send it to me?” Sam complains. “I thought she was just thanking me for the invitation to my ball. I couldn’t have possibly guessed that she sent the love letter for you to me.”

Bucky snorts. “Come on, that was just a polite letter. She has better manners than the both of us put together.”

“Of course she does,” Sam agrees. “Because she is of higher standing. And because she is of higher standing, too rich and also too beautiful for you, she’s never ever going to even consider marrying you.”

The coachman, a guy strongly resembling a bear with a long, curly beard, gets off and pats the horses. The door behind the coach opens and Natalia gets out on her own. The coachman looks at them with open hostility.

Natalia rounds the horses, dropping a few words to her coachman. He doesn’t look particularly enthusiastic. She’s wearing a riding habit with the skirt cut on both sides, revealing equally black trousers underneath. She smiles as she walks towards them. “Well, hello.”

Sam bows his head. “Miss Romanoff. Do you intend to go hunting?”

“Oh, I do not, Mister Wilson,” she replies. “However, this was the most functional habit I could find.”

“I did not know you owned a small sword,” Bucky remarks, pointing to her right.

“A gift from my brother,” Natalia replies, pulling the handle up a bit to reveal the blade. “Before my leaving Russia.”

“Well, you certainly have different customs over there,” Sam remarks. “Who is your companion?”

Natalia looks back at the coachman by the horses. “Oh, don’t mind Vanya. He speaks no English and only a smattering of French. And he doesn’t approve of me coming here.”

“Why would anyone mind a tour of our stables,” Sam argues. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go get my horse, I’ll be just over there.”

She smiles. “Oh, then I hope I don’t fail miserably.”

“I’m sure Bucky will go  _ easy _ on you,” Sam remarks sarcastically, disappearing into the stables.

Vanya or whatever his name is looks anything but friendly. Bucky sighs inwardly. “A friend of the family?”

“Oh, he almost belongs to the family,” Natalia replies, looking over. “He is kind of my protector. My guardian angel, if you will.”

“So he’s going to kill me if I so much as graze you,” Bucky states.

“Oh, definitely,” Natalia replies matter-of-fact. “See that French gun under his coat? He’s going to shoot you with that.”

Doesn’t that sound just great. “You know how to hold that?”

She snorts. “I think I can hold it just fine, thank you.”

Sam leads his horse out of the stable and starts brushing it. He likes to do that himself, rather than leave it to the stable master or any servants, none of who are here now anyway. Bucky finds he suddenly doesn’t know anything about sword fighting anymore. “Well, uh… you have a small sword here, which is a dueling weapon, sure, but also used in a real fight in a real war. You can parry pretty much anything with it, I mean, if you’re good, uh, longswords for instance. So, pretty solid defense.”

Natalia looks at him attentively like what he’s saying actually makes sense but doesn’t say a word. He could rip his hair out. “Uh, may I? Can I take a look?”

She unsheathes the small sword and carefully hands it to him with both hands. It’s short for him but rather long for her, probably reaching from the ground to her navel. Not too long, though. This sword was clearly custom made for her, someone her size.

And it’s a beautiful sword, without a flaw in the blade, the tongue of it fitting neatly into the hilt without any vacancies filled with wood as happens in cheaper swords. It bends downwards a bit, like a saber, and the handle is square, which he always prefered. The latter might be a bit too big for her hand but the shell is perfectly proportional to the blade.

He grabs the handle, bothered a bit by the bow but fine, it has its uses, the handle is too thin for him. Taking a few steps back, he points it at thin air, light and well-balanced, perfectly mounted. He lets the blade cut through the air, whooshing sound, it’s perfect. This is not something just to play around. He bends the blade against a wooden fence without forcing, semi-circular as it should be, springing back elastically to its original form. He takes out a key and knocks on the blade, listening intently to the clear sound. Not a single hidden flaw. This sword might be worth more than he makes in a year, and her brother gave it to her as a fun gift. He’s jealous.

“Barnes, it’s not polite to keep the lady waiting,” Sam calls. Bucky rolls his eyes. Natalia looks amused when he hands the sword back to her. “That’s a… really good sword,” he remarks awkwardly.

“I would hope so,” Natalia replies, keeping the weapon in her gloved hands. “Shall we?”

He’s not ready. He has no idea what to say. How does he explain anything? “Well… feet. Your feet should be two feet apart, heel to heel. Broader and you’ll be in your opponent’s reach, shorter and you’ll lack strength.”

She positions her feet in… some way. He can’t actually correct her because he can’t see her feet, let alone legs. He wonders what her ankles look like. “Uh… right foot forward, slightly bend your knees, but keep your body upright. And now point.”

There’s something innately graceful about her movements and posture, like a dancer. He bets he looks like a clumsy oaf. “The hilt of the sword should be a bit above the hip, both shoulders on the same height, extend your thumb and keep the fingers close around the handle, especially the little finger.”

She looks intrigued doing as he says. Her posture is totally natural. He’s in love. “Do you feel it? The sword?”

“Yes,” she replies with sarcasm in her voice. “I feel the sword.”

“Bend your arm just a little,” he adds. “Yes, perfect. Now, your wrist and the point of your right foot are on a perpendicular line.” She raises her eyebrows in a mocking fashion. Impatient. “Now, the point of your sword needs to be on the height of my shoulder, so you’ll need to raise it quite a bit. Okay? Try a thrust.”

She lunges forward like she’s been waiting for this and his posture is sloppy, hers is faulty as well but his blade catches on her hilt and he’s too slow and the point of her blade almost reaches his neck if not for an inch. Sam somewhere behind him laughs loudly. The unfriendly coachman seems a little vindicated.

He swallows and with a gloved finger pushes the tip to the side. “Careful with that.”

Cat-like smile as she retreats, not letting her guard down all the way, eyes always on her adversary. “I said I wanted you to teach me. I didn’t say I was  _ defenseless _ .”

He snorts, already looking for faults in her guard, always on the ready. “Your guardian angel teach you that?”

“Ivan? No,” she replies, blocking his push with difficulty. “But I used to watch my brothers. Only daughter, you know.”

“Wrist higher,” he orders, knocking her blade down. “I’ve seen cadets who were way worse.”

“Why, thank you,” she replies easily while he effortlessly parries her attack. “Many?”

He snorts, amused. “You’d be surprised.”

“You know I wouldn’t,” she confides, struggling to deal with his blow.

Sam is saddling his horse now. Bucky steps back to let her try an attack. “Come on. You trained with Ivan the Bear over there.”

“You can ask him,” she offers cheekily, moving swiftly and gracefully. “Though he won’t be able to understand you, much less to answer.”

“How awfully convenient for you,” he remarks, blocking her with ease. “But you will tell him I called him that.”

“I might,” she admits, a thin blush spreading over her face from the exertion. “Though he’d probably take it as a compliment.”

“I bet he would,” he agrees, giving her a soft thrust to parry. “He agreed to drive you here after all.”

Ivan is watching his every move, hand on his holster. Natalia looks over for a second, smiling. “Oh, I get to do what I want. As long as I don’t ruin my reputation and eventually go back to Russia like a good girl.”

Bucky does not like that topic at all. He steps in to correct her left arm but stops himself before touching her. Sam, leading his horse towards the riding ground, snorts audibly. “Hold it- no, not like- in line with your thigh.”

“You have no clue where my thigh is,” she mutters, making him blush, but arranges her limbs that way. He switches to blocking her because then he doesn’t have to say anything.

Sam shows off his riding skills just to make Bucky jealous but Natalia doesn’t spare it more than a few quick glances, always focused on her adversary as she should. Her face is reddening increasingly, though more of a pink than the red of her pinned hair, and her breathing is accelerating with the effort. He blocks and parries and thrusts, always careful not to actually endanger her. Not just because Ivan the Bear would shoot him.

He only notices something afoot when her ankle gives in on a step forward and she tumbles, bending over, holding her chest with the sword hand and fanning herself with the other. “Are you- did you sprain your ankle? Can I-”

Ivan is over in a second, gently helping her towards a bale of straw where she can lean, her thin arms in his paws. Sam jumps off his horse and comes running over as well, as hard as that is in riding boots. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Natalia gasps out, leaning her sword at her side and fanning her face with both hands. “Could you- glass of water?”

“Of course, I’ll be right back,” Sam replies, taking off. No servants here to do it for him. Ivan is off towards the coach, leaving Bucky standing around uncomfortably, not knowing what to do. “Are you- are you okay?”

“I can’t  _ breathe _ , you idiot,” she hisses, all politeness out of the window. “Get me a chair or something.”

Right. The dress. The stupid dress. He has no clue where to find a chair, so he heads towards the stables where he finds a wooden three-legged stool. It’s dirty no matter how much he tries to brush it off. When he goes back, Ivan is properly fanning her, talking at the same time. She looks a little better.

Ivan grabs the stool before Bucky can say a word and Natalia sits down, trying to adjust her riding habit. “You could- take it off, in the coach or so,” Bucky suggests nervously. “The corset, I mean.”

“Be glad Ivan didn’t understand that,” she hisses, grabbing the fan from Ivan who rolls his eyes. “God, this is so much more exhausting than hunting.”

He could have told her that. He wonders whether she even has something without a corset. She probably wears one all the time. Which sounds horrible. Her foot slips out from under the riding skirt, revealing an also not very comfortable shoe, fine for riding, not great for stepping around a lot. She is really ill-equipped for any of this.

Her face is slowly returning to a normal colour. Bucky is still standing around awkwardly, not knowing what to say. Ivan is talking and Natalia is rolling her eyes. Bucky doesn’t understand a word.

He is still standing around when Sam comes back with a glass of water. Natalia takes it with a smile. “Thank you. I just need a moment, you all needn’t stand around me like that.”

“If you are certain that you will be fine,” Sam replies. “You can call if you need anything, of course, I’ll be just over there.”

“Thank you but that’s really not necessary,” Natalia returns, shuffling slightly on her stool. “I don’t want to keep you from riding.”

“I guess you are already looked after,” Sam says, looking from Ivan to Bucky. “Alright. Still, just call.”

Bucky sighs when Sam is gone and an awkward silence spreads. “I guess you won’t want to continue?”

“Not right now, no,” Natalia replies, folding the fan. “It’s okay. I’m already better.”

“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t try to do that in a corset,” he remarks carefully.

Natalia snorts. “I always wear one. It’s not as bad as you think, if you’re used to it, but you shouldn’t, well,  _ run _ .”

“That’s pretty much what it is, though,” Bucky reminds her. “You really couldn’t take that off?”

“Ah, now see, that falls under  _ ruining my reputation _ ,” Natalia explains. “My great-aunt would never tolerate that.”

Bucky snorts. “Come on. She doesn’t even know you’re here, does she?”

“I would have to slip out without anyone seeing me, though,” Natalia specifies. “I’ll think about it. So, what do you think, did I learn something?”

“Oh, sure, you’re… pretty good,” Bucky replies awkwardly. “You definitely learned something, yeah.”

She grins, tilting her head. “Come on. You want to say that I could learn a lot more. Say it.”

“Of course you could,” he blocks. “But you were the one who asked, so it’s up to you to say when you are satisfied.”

“Mhm.” She says something to Ivan. “I should get going, though. I might or might not send you a note again.”

“I look forward to finding out how it will make its way to me,” Bucky replies, picking up her small sword for her.

Natalia smirks, getting up, taking the sword and sheathing it. “Oh, now I must find an extra-interesting way.”

“I bet you will,” he says while she gets in the coach. Sam waves from the riding ground.

“Well, then.” She waves at Sam, then smirks at Bucky. “I’ll see you around. And… thank you.”


	3. Chapter 3

“She almost knocked the sword out of his hand,” Sam reports. “He’s done for. He’ll never love another woman again.”

Bucky rolls his eyes looking around the room but does not contradict him. Steve looks confused. “Buck, why did you lose to an absolute beginner?”

“I didn’t  _ lose _ ,” Bucky replies sorely. “I just wasn’t prepared for such a strong attack.”

“Which is a fancy way of explaining away that she almost stabbed you in the neck,” Sam adds.

Bucky sighs in frustration. “I guess I should have seen it coming. Did you see her sword?”

“She has her own sword?” Sharon asks, clearly intrigued.

“A damn good one, too,” Bucky adds. “Sorry. A really good one. Probably worth more than my house.”

“Buck, you live with the regiment,” Steve reminds him. “You don’t have a house.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ. You get my point.”

“But where did she get it?” Sharon probes.

“From her brother,” Bucky says. “One of her brothers, I guess. If that’s their idea of a fun gift, they must be filthy rich.”

“Which, my dear friend, as I’ve been telling you, is precisely why she will never ever consider marrying you,” Sam repeats. “No matter how lovely she smiles at you.”

“She did no such thing,” Bucky insists with annoyance. “You didn’t even hear her. She called me an idiot.”

“Ohoh,” Sharon remarks amusedly.

“What, does that mean something?” Bucky inquires.

“Of course,” Sharon says, pointing at Steve. “Just ask that idiot over there.”

Steve blushes, though nowhere near as much as Bucky. Thankfully, they are interrupted by Sam’s uncle, Nicholas Fury. “Well, nephew, you look like you are enjoying yourself.”

“I am,” Sam admits, trying not to laugh. “But I couldn’t possibly tell you why.”

Fury looks at them inquisitively with his one eye, making Bucky blush even harder. “I hope you guys didn’t do something. Anyway, would you mind if I borrowed Sharon for a moment?”

“Of course,” Steve agrees gracefully, letting go of her arm. “As long as you bring her back.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Sharon says, nodding her goodbye.

“Come on, stop looking around,” Sam chides Bucky. “You can’t do that all evening.”

“No, really, Buck, I don’t like this,” Steve adds. “This is not going anywhere and I’m not sure you’re aware of that. You shouldn’t get your hopes up.”

“I’m not doing that,” Bucky replies annoyedly. “Of course this was never going anywhere. I don’t care if she never talks or writes to me again.”

Sam starts laughing. Bucky growls. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sam wipes at his eye. “I thought you meant that as a joke.”

“Seriously,” Steve repeats. “You’re going to make yourself very unhappy. And maybe her as well.”

Bucky is close to losing it. “Oh, shut up! Just because for you, everything fell conveniently into place and Sharon was right there, and Wilson is apparently happy with his Shetland pony- do you even realize how lucky you are?”

“Yes,” Sam says. “My pony is great, just so you know.”

“You’re just making it worse,” Steve says. “I know it’s not fair, of course, but she’s just not going to do it. Just accept it.”

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice interrupts. “If it isn’t my favourite Captain-Sergeant duo.”

Steve sighs. “Stark.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He couldn’t anyway because Stark just keeps talking. “You look unhappy. And you, Wilson, did your pony finally learn a handstand?”

“Stark, ponies don’t have hands,” Sam replies. “That makes it kind of difficult. It can nod, though.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Stark says. “Barnes, you haven’t said a word. What crawled up your ass and died?”

“Be glad Sharon didn’t hear that,” Steve mutters into his glass.

“Well, you came over, so that’s that,” Bucky returns sourly. “Didn’t exactly brighten my mood.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” Stark gesticulates with his glass. “Because I have a favour to ask you.”

“You? Me?” Bucky repeats. “Please don’t tell me you need me to duel someone again.”

“No, no, not this time,” Stark assuages. “Just come over for a second, will you.”

Bucky sighs. “Really? Can’t you just say it? Is the drama really necessary?”

“It is, just come on.” Stark beckons him over. “Wilson, Rogers, nice talk.”

Steve snorts and raises his glass slightly. Bucky follows Stark reluctantly towards the middle of the room. “So, my favourite Sergeant,” Stark starts conversationally, weaving through the crowds. “It didn’t escape my notice that on the Wilson’s ball last week, you talked quite a bit with soon-to-be Duchess Natasha Romanova.”

“I guess,” Bucky admits reluctantly, guarded. “What about it?”

Stark smiles. “Well, you know my business, I spend a lot of time in the countryside testing my projects and don’t keep up with social activities as much - in short, I want you to introduce me to her.”

“What? Me?” Bucky asks dumbfounded. “Why? No. No way.”

“Come on, Barnes,” Stark says. “Just a few minutes. You don’t have anything better to do.”

“Still no,” Bucky insists. “Why even me? I don’t know her.”

“Oh, come on, do I have to look for someone else, really?” Stark questions. “Why are you making this so complicated?”

Bucky snorts. “I’m not introducing you to her. What do you even want from her? You’re married, need I remind you.”

“Precisely, I am married, I don’t do that anymore,” Stark returns. “I didn’t say I wanted to entertain a relationship with her. But she is related to the Russian tsar and I  _ need  _ to know her.”

“Still no,” Bucky insists. “I only spoke to her once, find someone else. She’s not even here.”

“Of course she is,” Tony disagrees, pointing across the room. “Right over there, talking to… oh, that’s Miss Carter.”

Bucky’s heart stops. That is Natalia, indeed, in a wonderful green gown, smiling and chatting casually with Sharon, who looks kind of unbelieving herself. “I’m going to ask Miss Carter. I’m sure she’ll be more cooperative than you,” Stark’s voice says from somewhere far away.

She’s beautiful. He almost forgot since last week, the beautiful red of her hair, her slender neck, her razor-thin waist and the graceful way she holds her arms. What does she want from Sharon, though? “Barnes? You can go now,” Stark says. “Seriously, I don’t need you anymore.”

Bucky shakes his head to clear it. “Whatever.” It occurs to him that he should also walk away, so he does, back to Sam and Steve.

 

“So, my dear,” Fury remarks, leading Sharon through the room. “Still haven’t set a date?”

Sharon snorts softly. “Oh, you know how hard it is to get Peggy down from Scotland. But I refuse to get married without her attending, so, we’ll have to see.”

“Send her my best,” Fury suggests. “Anyway, I have been asked to introduce you to someone.”

“Really,” Sharon repeats. “Who? Who asked you?”

Fury smirks because him actually answering a question is something that has never happened. “Well, someone who I, as your godfather, believe would be very beneficial for you to know.”

“That tells me just about nothing,” Sharon complains.

A red-haired woman turns around and smiles at them. Natasha Romanova. Sharon’s breathing accelerates. Not prepared for this. “Miss Romanova,” Fury starts. “I would like to introduce you to Miss Sharon Carter.”

Sharon curtsies as quick as she can because she is just a relatively poor country aristocrat set to marry a Captain without much nobility or wealth to his name and if she screws this up with a person so far above her, her parents are going to be mad. Natasha, to her surprise, curtsies as well. “A pleasure. So, you are Mister Fury’s goddaughter?”

“Yes,” Sharon confirms, looking at Fury. “The pleasure is all mine. Do you mind me asking how you know Nick?”

“Oh, my uncle and occasionally my aunt stay at his health resort,” Natasha explains. “In fact, that is the reason that they came here because my uncle suffers from a chronic illness. I accompanied them in order to further my education.”

“If you would excuse me,” Fury adds. “I have business to take care of.”

Sharon snorts when he is gone. “He always says that. I’m not sure what that business is.”

Natasha smiles encouragingly. “How did he come to be your godfather?”

“He is married to my aunt,” Sharon explains. “Maria. My great-parents were very skeptical, of course, but he already had the resort and the money that comes with it back then, so they ended up agreeing to it.”

“So you are related to the Wilson family as well, by marriage,” Natasha states.

“Sure, Sam Wilson is my great-cousin,” Sharon confirms. “I know that is funny because we look nothing alike.”

Natasha smirks. “Oh, I have seen stranger things. I heard that you are a passionate hunter.”

Sharon blushes. “I guess you could say that. Do you hunt?”

Natasha laughs, in an extremely fashionable way. “Sometimes. I have been on a bear hunt once, as a child.”

“Really?” Sharon asks, very intrigued. “How was it?”

“Incredibly boring,” Natasha replies, sipping from her glass. “We were sitting in a pit for hours. It was raining as well. I fell asleep and only woke when the bear was already dead.”

“Still,” Sharon insists. “I’d like to try that. Not that many bears to shoot in England, though.”

“Ah, you can’t have everything, no matter where you are,” Natasha agrees. “Do you hunt with your… fiancé, Captain Rogers, if I’m not mistaken?”

Sharon blushes. “Oh, no. That would be highly improper. He doesn’t particularly enjoy it either.”

“I thought it was a men’s sport,” Natasha suggests, smirking.

Sharon snorts. “Oh hell no. Excuse me.”

Natasha smiles like she just learned an important secret. “Well, would you like to accompany me to the Odinsson’s on Thursday? I have been invited. A goose hunt, if I remember correctly.”

“That is very gracious of you,” Sharon says. “But I couldn’t possibly accept. I haven’t been invited, after all, and I haven’t been introduced to the Odinsson family.”

“I am almost certain that won’t be a problem,” Natasha assures her. “I will ask and send you notice. You live behind the Bellebury Forest, don’t you?”

“That’s correct,” Sharon agrees. “Thank you for the kind invitation. I would indeed appreciate it, that is, if the Odinsson family wishes for me to participate.”

Natasha smiles encouragingly. “I am sure they will. It was an absolute pleasure to talk to you.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Sharon returns, curtsying, still kind of perplexed.

Natasha breezes off, in her green gown with the expensive lace on it, and is talking to someone else in absolutely no time. Sharon stares for a second, then catches herself and goes looking for her fiancé.

Steve is still where she left him, arguing with Bucky about something or the other. Sharon looks around to make sure that nobody else is listening in on them, then interrupts Steve brazenly. “What the hell? She invited me on a goose chase!”

“Natasha Romanoff invited you on a goose chase,” Steve repeats, as if that somehow made things clearer.

“That’s what I said, you idiot.” Sharon looks at Bucky accusingly. “What the hell did you tell her about me?”

Bucky raises his hands defensively. “Nothing! Swear to God.”

Sharon snorts. “Liar. Nick just introduced me to her and now she already invites me? That is strange, you have to admit that much.”

“Maybe she just found you very charming,” Steve suggests, smiling fondly. “As I do.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “No, really. We never talked about you. She mentioned you briefly, you know, because of the thing Rumlow said.”

“That I am a feckless shrew who doesn’t know her place,” Sharon interrupts him. “I remember. And my ears are not as sensitive as Steve pretends.”

“Yeah, anyway, she just said she saw the duel,” Bucky repeats. “I really don’t know why she invites you now.”

“Are you going though?” Steve asks.

Sharon snorts. “She invited me to the  _ Odinssons _ . What was I supposed to say, no thank you?”

Steve gulps. “I’ve been there, once. It’s like a palace.”

Sharon sighs. “Oh dear Lord, I’m going to make a complete fool of myself.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sharon maybe had worried a little too much. Thor Odinsson, the heir of the Odinsson family, was a very warm and welcoming person who did not care at all about the faults in her manners. Unfortunately, the same could not be said about his brother who kept giving her disapproving looks. He was mostly preoccupied with Lady Sif, though, who seemed kind of ambivalent to his advances.

Lady Natasha was well acquainted with most of the hunting party consisting of the Odinsson brothers, Lady Sif as well as three Irish friends of Thor Odinsson who seemed to be connected to the military somehow. Thor, who had been talking to Natasha until now, rode to the front to consult with his friends about the best plan of action, past his brother who was telling Lady Sif a story that, in Sharon’s humble opinion, seemed hardly believable. Sif was teetering rather on the disbelieving side as well.

Sharon used the opportunity to fall back a bit so she could talk to Natasha with a bit more privacy. “If you don’t mind me asking… I’m still curious as to why you invited me to come.”

Natasha smiles politely. “Well, I enjoy your company.”

“But, if I may speak honestly,” Sharon hurries to say. “You hardly know me. We only spoke once.”

“Well, we are speaking now and I am thus getting to know you better,” Natasha deflects.

Sharon sighs. “Forgive me if I am offending you. I was just thinking… if you only wanted me to pass on the note, I would have done so gladly, without expecting anything from you in return.”

Natasha’s brows furrow. “Oh, rest assured, that is not it. I care about more things than about that note.”

“About more than learning sword fighting? Because that does sound like fun,” Sharon remarks.

Natasha smiles suddenly. “You know what you and I have in common? We are both set to be married soon. But do you also know what divides us?”

“Your wedding will be a much bigger event than mine?” Sharon suggests.

“You know your soon-to-be-husband,” Natasha replies, shaking her head. “I don’t.”

“Oh.” Sharon stares ahead. “You have never met him?”

“Oh, we were introduced, once,” Natasha corrects. “And he visited our family residence one more time before the match was made. But… I don’t  _ know  _ him.”

“You don’t know what he is like,” Sharon repeats. “And thus, you don’t know whether you want to marry him or not.”

“My feelings and opinions are not of relevance here,” Natasha refuses. “But I would appreciate knowing what to expect.”

“Oh, you never know that.” Sharon sighs. “My older sister got married before me, she moved to Scotland with her husband. And she told me that it was a lot different from what she imagined. Not necessarily bad, but not what she expected.”

Natasha tilts her head. “In what way?”

“Well, small things, really,” Sharon says. “Food preferences. Travelling. Spending money. Opinions about how a household should be led. The raising of children as well, I assume, they don't have children yet.”

“How well did she know her husband before marrying him?” Natasha asks.

“Fairly well, I would say,” Sharon answers. “However, she also said her husband’s… temper was different than she thought it to be. In ways both good and bad.”

Natasha smiles, shifting the reins to her other hand. “Well, I hope you experience less surprises.”

Sharon snorts. “We’ll see about that. Then again, we have been postponing the ceremony for a few months now. I am almost used to it at this point.”

Natasha smirks. “Oh, that’s nothing. I have been betrothed for over a year and a half now.”

“Oh my.” Sharon rearranges her hat. “If you don’t mind me being frank… some people might get the impression you might not intend to go through with it after all.”

“That is not an option,” Natasha replies bluntly. “It is a settled affair. However, I do appreciate hearing of your experiences.”

“Would you like to…” Sharon starts, pursing her lips, “change places with me? Make your own choice?”

Natasha laughs. “Well, you have to consider I am entering a much more advantageous matrimony so, no, I would not.”

“I am very happy in my position as well,” Sharon acknowledges. “This is just what somebody like me could hope for.”

 

Sharon finally blunders it when they reach the marsh and, getting off her horse with the help of one of Thor’s friend, takes out the gun of her father from under the saddle. Thor’s friend, a blonde man with a moustache, looks genuinely surprised, while Loki Odinsson has a sneering look on his face. “Oh my, Lady Carter, were you expecting to shoot game?”

Sharon blushes automatically, close to just shoving the gun back, but Lady Sif chips in immediately. “And why not? I for my part do wish to see her shoot.”

She actually has a strong Irish accent as well. Loki Odinsson stares at her but she does not retreat, holding her hand out to him until he helps her off her horse. “We would be delighted for you to join us, Lady Carter,” Thor Odinsson chimes in good-heartedly.

“Thank you very much, that is very kind,” Sharon hurries to say, hoping the blush is fading away. It probably isn’t. “But I don’t want to intrude.”

Lady Sif makes an elegant, dismissive hand gesture. “Nonsense. In fact, if someone were to lend me his weapon-” pointed look at Loki Odinsson- “I would rejoice in trying it out as well.”

Thor Odinsson laughs before Loki can protest. “Splendid, splendid! Lady Romanoff, now you cannot refuse either.”

Natasha smiles, gliding off her horse without help. “Well, since you are asking, Lord Odinsson, I did in fact borrow a gun of my uncle and bring it with me.”

Loki Odinsson evidently cannot believe what is happening. “Splendid,” Thor repeats. “Brother, as good hosts, I believe it is incumbent on us to stay here and watch the horses. Would you mind giving your gun to Lady Sif?”

Loki Odinsson would obviously prefer if Thor did it himself but he hands his gun away teeth-gnashingly. Lady Sif smiles and curtsies politely. Thor’s three friends who evidently know the terrain lead the way into the marsh. The blonde one joins Sharon. “Well, Lady Carter, have you been on a hunt before?”

Sharon blushes again, just at being reminded. “I have. But really, you should ask Lady Natasha, she told me she was on a bear hunt once.”

The blonde spins around to see Natasha explain the gun to Lady Sif. “Oh, really? Lady Romanoff?” Natasha looks up. “Lady Carter was just telling me that you participated in a bear hunt.”

Natasha snorts politely. “Oh, please, Lord Fandral, let’s not talk about this. It is nowhere near as exciting as it sounds.”

“It does sound very exciting,” Fandral agrees with amusement. “How does one even go about hunting a bear? It can hardly be done with dogs, can it?”

“No, no, you need to stake out in a forest in the right season,” Natasha explains, catching up with the two of them. “If a bear has been sighted or has killed some livestock. You use a bait, usually meat or fish or just bread, bears have a very keen sense of smell. And then you just sit in your hiding spot for hours without moving because if the bear notices you, he won’t take the bait. So, I fell asleep and when I woke up, the bear was already dead.”

“Still,” Sharon insists. “Such a huge animal.”

“It is,” Natasha admits, smiling. “Have you ever seen a moose, Lord Fandral?”

“I have seen one in a hunting campaign in Sweden,” Fandral tells them. “We missed and it got away, though. The biggest animal I have ever seen.”

“A bear is just like that,” Natasha says. “But even more massive.”

Fandral smiles, twirling his mustache. “I was not aware young ladies were such experts in hunting.”

Sharon blushes. “I would certainly not call myself an expert.”

“My family owns a Dacha, a country house close to the Volga river, in the South,” Natasha explains. “My father is an avid hunter. I would not call myself an expert either, I mostly have second-hand knowledge.”

“I, however, have never participated in a hunt before,” Lady Sif chips in. “So, I am very excited.”

Fandral laughs. “To think that you have accompanied us quite a number of times but never got to shoot game. You should really be thankful to Lady Carter.”

Lady Sif smiles at Sharon. “Oh, I am, absolutely.”

“If you would excuse me,” Fandral bows quickly. “I must discuss our plan of campaign with my friends before they make a wrong decision.”

Lady Sif smiles at Sharon encouragingly when he is gone, in the way ladies of higher standing seem to do. “Well, Miss Carter. I have been told you are set to marry soon.”

Sharon sighs. “Oh. Yes, that is true. However, we are having trouble setting a date.”

“And why, if I may ask?” Lady Sif inquires.

“I want my sister to be present at my wedding.” Sharon’s brows furrow. “We used to be very close. She married and moved North, to Scotland, and it is very difficult to get her down here.”

“Oh, family,” Sif agrees emphatically. “That can be difficult, indeed. However, you do not have to travel as far as Lady Romanoff. Is it true that you are betrothed to a Duke?”

Natasha smiles. “The translation is a little difficult but you could call him that, yes.”

“What about you, Lady Sif?” Sharon ventures. “You are still unpromised?”

Lady Sif smiles mischievously. “Indeed I am. However, Loki Odinsson seems to have objections to that.”

Natasha snorts. “You do not seem very delighted at the prospect.”

“I might prefer ending as a spinster,” Sif admits, laughing. “We’ll see about that.”

 

They have two dogs with them, a big brown one with startling yellow eyes by the name of Heimdall, belonging to Thor, and a smaller grey one, quite aggressive, belonging to Loki and named Valkyrie. “There are hawks circling here,” the big friend with the red hair announces. “A good sign indeed.”

“Peewits, I think,” Sharon says, powdering her gun.

“Let us stay here,” Fandral bids. “We should not make the ladies wade through the bog.”

“It is too great a distance,” the third friend, black-haired, worries. “We will not be able to shoot anything.”

“Let us ask the lady of many unknown talents,” Fandral suggests. “Lady Carter, what do you think?”

Sharon surveys the area. “I think this is a good spot. I would advise against going any further.”

“I will not hit anything anyway,” Lady Sif announces. “This spot is as good as any.”

“It is settled then,” the red-haired man decides, crouching down to the brown dog. “Heimdall, you know what you have to do. Go!”

The brown dog starts into the marsh, looking and listening and smelling for any birds. The grey dog takes a slightly different direction. Fandral powders and loads Sif’s gun for her while Natasha does it herself. Sharon keeps her eyes on the dogs and startles when the red-haired man starts speaking to her. “Well, Lady Carter, I hear your fiancé has an important role in the regiment.”

“He does,” Sharon replies, struggling to come up with a longer answer. “Captain Steve Rogers.”

“How interesting,” the red-haired man says, sounding genuine but Sharon is not quite sure. “Have you met him, Lady Romanoff?”

“We have been introduced,” Natasha replies without looking up. “Yes.”

“A good match indeed,” the red-haired man repeats. “You must be very happy.”

He probably doesn’t mean it but it sounds patronizing in Sharon’s ears. Yes, a captain, what a good catch for a country girl! Meanwhile, Natasha is dead set on marrying one of the most important men in Russia and Lady Sif is at least being wooed by the heir to a considerable fortune. Sharon suddenly feels very ugly.

“I have heard a lot about his friend, though,” the black-haired man adds. “I forgot his name, but he is supposed to be the best swordsman of the whole regiment.”

Natasha smiles mischievously, lowering her gun. “Sergeant Barnes. I have witnessed a duel between him and a certain Rumlow. I can’t say I would disagree with that assessment.”

“Have you been there too, Lady Carter?” the redhead asks.

Sharon tries not to grimace. “I have not. However, I was in fact the reason for that duel.”

The red-haired man- she really should have remembered his name- laughs loudly. “Really? How so? You truly are a surprising woman.”

“Rumlow thought my participation in a hunting party inappropriate,” Sharon says carefully. “And he insulted me, in words that I do not wish to repeat.”

“But wouldn’t it be incumbent on your fiancé, Captain Rogers, to defend your honour?” the black-haired man questions.

“Steve had been injured in a riding accident,” Sharon recalls. “So Bucky did in his stead. He and Steve are almost like brothers and I know them both very well.”

She can’t help but notice Natasha peaking up slightly. Fandral, however, alerts them to Heimdall who is crouching in front of a tuft of reed, having determined the origin of the scent in his nose. Sharon cocks her gun and waits with her breath held. The dog crouches, only wagging the tip of his tail, his huge body all tense, then suddenly shoots forward through the reed. A bird, snipe, takes off hastily. Sharon pulls the trigger a little too early, before she has full aim, and misses narrowly. A second shot from her left, Lady Sif, goes off as well but also misses its mark. The snipe gets away.

Sharon curses mentally. If the first shot misses, the rest of the day is generally hardly successful. And now everyone is going to think she was overstating her prowess but she can shoot, really, she can-

The red-haired man laughs. “A good thing indeed that wasn’t our dinner just flying away.”

Heimdall the dog comes trotting back, clearly disappointed. The small grey dog, however, seems to have caught scent, purposefully circling in. “We will let Lady Romanoff have this one,” Fandral announces, to the dismay of his black-haired friend.

Natasha smiles at him flirtatiously for just a blink, then focuses on the dog drawing closer. This time, it’s a peewit being flushed. Sharon watches Natasha tensely and when she thinks she’ll shoot now, Natasha waits another fraction of a second with the poise of a woman who has nothing to prove to anyone here. Then she fires.

The peewit shrieks, struggling to keep itself in the air, then plummets to the ground. Two more peewits have taken off, meanwhile, one of which the black-haired man hits with a shot. Heimdall and the grey dog both bolt forward eagerly to retrieve the game.

Natasha looks quite satisfied. Sharon curses inwardly again. She shoots just as good when she is relaxed and under less pressure. She just didn’t manage to show it. “Excellent shot,” Lady Sif praises. “I am certain I will never shoot as good as that.”

“It just takes practice and a clear head,” the red-haired man says. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Carter?”

Sharon bites her lip and says nothing, afraid that she will start crying. It’s pathetic. She just cares way too deeply what these people think of her. And she doesn’t even know their names. She’s pathetic.

“I believe it is your turn now, Lord Volstagg,” Natasha intervenes. “To prove to us your undoubtedly impeccable aim.”

She may not be a better shot, but she is certainly smoother in conversation. The black-haired man takes the retrieved birds from the two dogs. “Do you mind if I take these, Lady Romanoff?”

“Not at all,” Natasha replies gracefully. “I did not bring a game bag.”

“Fandral, I can’t help but notice you haven’t shot yet either,” the red-haired Volstagg remarks.

“Indeed, I had been busy helping Lady Sif,” Fandral explains effortlessly. “I would be delighted to have a go at it, but I am afraid she requires further assistance.”

Sif snorts. “Oh, Fandral, if I am inhibiting you, I give up. Please go ahead, I will be watching attentively.”


	5. Chapter 5

When they return to the horses, Sharon has one peewit, as do Fandral and the redhead Irish, while the black-haired and Natasha have two each. Sif, according to her prediction, didn't shoot anything, but it's not like she really tried either.

Thor Odinsson and his brother are fighting about one thing or the other or probably both. The former, however, lights up when he spots his returning guests. “Ah, my friends! I take it you were successful?”

The black-haired and red-haired men both raise the game bag by way of answer. “I can report that the ladies are indeed prolific shots,” Fandral replies. “I think they should accompany us more often.”

“ _Très_ _gentil_ of you to include me, but really, the honor belongs to Lady Carter and Romanoff,” Lady Sif adds. “I, however, enjoyed myself greatly.”

“Oh, good,” Loki mutters sourly. Everybody ignores him.

“And I hope you enjoyed yourself as well, Miss Carter, Miss Romanoff?” Thor asks.

It was not as horrible as she imagined. Sharon forces a smile. “It was very entertaining,” Natasha agrees. “Lord Fandral was even so entertained that he missed  _ three _ whole shots.”

She really is flirting with him. Sharon is not imagining that. Fandral smiles good-heartedly. “In the company of such beautiful ladies, how can one not get distracted?”

The red-haired friend snorts and takes his horse’s reins. “I, for my part, am very hungry. Thor, my friend, I hope there is a feast prepared for us.”

Sharon's face flushes. Thor doesn't notice and laughs. “Of course, my friend. I would never forget your famous appetite.”

“Infamous, one might say,” the black-haired man corrects, climbing onto his horse.

“I'm,” Sharon starts nervously. “I am afraid I shall not be able to come with you.”

“Oh, no, you must come,” Lady Sif immediately replies. “I absolutely wish to hear stories about your hunting experiences.”

Sharon groans inwardly. This would be so much easier if she could just ride home. Then she wouldn't have to blunder her table manners either. “I have nothing to wear. I didn't bring a change of clothes.”

She is dirty, as one is after a hunting party, covered in dust and gunpowder and a bit of mud as well. Thor Odinsson, however, pushes all these objections aside. “Oh, Miss Carter, we certainly wouldn't mind. You shouldn't let these worries keep us from enjoying your company. And if you insist, Lady Sif might be able to lend you an appropriate outfit.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Sif confirms immediately. “Please come.”

Natasha doesn't come to her rescue. Sharon sighs and gives in, even though she does not want to, and they all ride back to the Odinssons’ estate.

 

“I don't feel good in this,” Sharon mutters.

“No, no, you look excellent,” Sif insists. “The sleeves are a little long still. Margaret, could you fix them up somehow?”

The older servant stabs Sharon with a pin. She hisses and Margaret apologizes. Sharon really just wants to get out of here and not have to endure Loki's smug looks when she takes the wrong fork or can't get the meat cut from the bones correctly. “I assure you, you look magnificent,” Sif repeats. “A shame your fiancé can’t see you. If you don't mind, I will go get changed now as well. Margaret, please come help me when you are finished.”

Margaret nods and stabs Sharon again. Hiss. It's almost as if she does it on purpose.

Margaret leaves eventually and Sharon is left to turn in front of the mirror, unsatisfied. It is a rather simple dress, she assumes, for Lady Sif and it does not quite fit her, as much as Margarete might have tried. Still, this might be the most expensive dress she'll ever wear, more expensive than her wedding gown. And that makes her anxious about ruining it (in combination with her surely inadequate table manners) and also jealous, if she is honest.

The door closes and Sharon starts as if she was being caught. It's Natasha, of course, and she really looks splendid in a dark red dress. It's like she is all Sharon is not.

“Oh, you look good,” Natasha says politely, walking over.

Sharon snorts. “You don't need to lie. Maybe it would look better with a corset.”

“It's too high fitted for that,” Natasha replies, pulling a bit at the sleeves.

Sharon sighs while Natasha puffs the sleeves. “I've never worn a corset. I don't have a waist like you.”

“Oh, the waist comes from wearing it all day,” Natasha mutters, focused on arranging the fabric. “All day every day.”

“That sounds painful,” Sharon remarks. “Don't you wonder for whom you are taking such pains?”

Natasha steps back and studies her with a strange look. “It doesn't actually hurt. You get used to it.”

“That still sounds awful,” Sharon insists. “You're deforming your body over this.”

“Putting it in shape,” Natasha corrects. “You know what also deforms your body? Having children. Do you not intend to do that either?”

Sharon lowers her head remorsefully. “I just… This feels wrong. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be wearing this.”

“You can stay upstairs if you want,” Natasha offers. “I'll tell them you are tired from the hunt.”

“It's so disingenuous,” Sharon blurts out. “You are lying. You are lying all the time. You were lying when you flirted with Fandral- I'm sorry, I should never have said anything. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” Natasha says neutrally. “I was not lying. I was merely playing my role, the role I am supposed to play.”

“That is the same thing,” Sharon disagrees. “I'm sorry for insisting on this but you really don't need it. You are everything a girl like me aspires to be, without even trying.”

“My dear Sharon,” Natasha says, taking a step forward. “I was, from my very birth, raised to make a good match. All my upbringing, all my education made me exactly the woman I am today. There is nothing natural about me, nothing that is, as you said,  _ without even trying. _ You, however, you have something distinctly unspoilt about you, and I envy that greatly. Yes, indeed, I envy that.”

“But you are so natural,” Sharon insists. “Your wit, your smoothness in conversation, your confidence.”

Natasha smiles. “Oh, absolutely not. You know, it is truly like bending wood. You force it until it stays. You pretend until it becomes a second skin.”

Sharon sighs, touching the cross on her necklace. “Do you sometimes wish to just be yourself?”

“Yes,” Natasha admits quietly. “However, you should not think I am unhappy. I am not. I would not change my life. Just sometimes, for instance when I see you, I do wish to behave just naturally, as you say.”

“Well, maybe you should just do it,” Sharon suggests.

Natasha smiles again and walks back to the door. “I don't even know how. I can only admire you. Oh, and Sharon?”

Sharon peeks up. Natasha nods. “I think you should change back if you feel better that way.”

The door falls closed, leaving Sharon standing there in disbelief.

 

“The dress just wouldn't fit,” Sharon explains. “I hope you don't mind, Lord Odinsson.”

“Absolutely not,” Thor naturally says. He even sounds like he means it. Loki's evil eye just ricochets off her.

Lady Sif looks a bit confused but Natasha expertly steers the conversation away. “Lord Fandral, have you recovered from your distractedness?”

“Not quite,” Fandral replies, raising his glass. “Let me just say you look absolutely stunning. Your fiancé is a lucky man.”

“Indeed, he is,” Natasha agrees, taking a sip of wine. This can't be a deception. There is no way her confidence is just pretended. It oozes from her every movement.

“Just so I understand,” Loki starts smoothly like a weasel. “Miss Romanoff, you are related to the Russian tsar?”

“Oh, distantly,” Natasha acknowledges. “But yes.”

“And your fiancé?” Loki inquires.

“He is not,” Natasha answers. “He is, however, of high nobility, comparable to a Duke. And he possesses a great deal of land north of the Black Sea, very arable land.”

“So, you will move there once you're married?” Lady Sif asks. “It certainly sounds beautiful.”

“I do not know,” Natasha confesses. “I assume we would live in Moscow or in Saint Petersburg and travel southwest for the winter.”

“The Russian winter has an infamous reputation,” the black-haired friend remarks.

The red-haired man laughs. “Oh, Fandral. Do you remember our travels in Sweden, when we were snowed in?”

“Of course I remember,” Fandral replies remorsefully. “I thought my toes were going to freeze off.”

“I also remember,” Thor adds with amusement. “But my toes were just fine.”

“Do you ever hunt in winter, Sharon?” Lady Sif asks. “In the snow?”

“In England?” Sharon snorts. “No. My family does not travel much either.”

“You must certainly have been to the continent,” Loki sneeringly supposes. “To France or the Kingdom of the Netherlands.”

Sharon's face heats up. She looks down at her plate and is absolutely certain her steak will slip across the table any instant. “As I said, my family does not travel much.”

“But you said your sister lives up in Scotland,” Sif jumps in. “You might have visited her- or, if you have not had the opportunity, do so in the future.”

“Or you would be very welcome over in Ireland,” Fandral adds. “We would be delighted to show you around our hunting grounds.”

They're all so nice to her because they  _ know  _ she doesn't deserve to be here. “Well, I- thank you for your offer, but my- fiancé is a Captain with the regiment and I cannot tell where they might be stationed in the future. But I will certainly visit my sister up in Scotland.”

“Though, at the moment, you are more focused on enticing her to come here,” Natasha says smoothly. “If I recall correctly.”

Sharon almost grimaces- but she is not with Steve or Bucky or Sam, she can't do that here. “Ah, yes, your wedding,” Thor remarks. “When is it set to be again?”

Sharon flushes. “We have agreed to postpone it until my sister can attend. So, there is no date yet.”

“Your sister must mean a great deal to you,” the red-haired man comments.

“She does,” Sharon sighs. “It was very difficult when she suddenly moved to Scotland, up and away.”

“Do you miss your family, Natasha?” Lady Sif asks. “They are even further away, after all.”

“Oh, I do,” Natasha replies nonchalantly. “My brothers and my father… my mother.”

She just let slip, in all politeness and with plausible deniability, that she is not that close with her mother. They all understand it. She is truly skilled at this game. Sharon wonders where she learned that.

“Well, we will be leaving in about two weeks,” Fandral says. “As hard as it will be to say goodbye to this wonderful country with all its wonderful people. I assume you are going to be staying for longer.”

“I should not like to travel across the whole continent during winter,” Natasha excuses. “The earliest I would thus be leaving is in the spring.”

“We will all miss you,” Thor Odinsson says. “How long has it been since you arrived here? A year?”

“Yes, indeed,” Loki confirms. “So, you must have been betrothed for a year and a half at least, during which you never saw your fiancé.”

“A truly regrettable thing,” Natasha remarks noncommittally.

“I see no problem with this,” Lady Sif chimes in. “Your fiancé could have come with you, after all. I'm sure he would have found it to his liking.”

“But if he has such a large estate, he would have to take care of that,” the black-haired man argues. “He couldn't just travel across the continent.”

“He is certainly looking forward to your return,” Thor says diplomatically. “Be it next fall or whenever.”

“I, for my part, wish I could stay here,” Lady Sif sighs. “I have made so many great friends here. Including Miss Carter and Miss Romanoff. I hope to receive a lot of letters from you in the future. Maybe you would even consider inviting me to your wedding.”

“I really don't know when it's going to be,” Sharon repeats. “But I will absolutely write you, yes.”

“I, however, am probably going to vanish from all your lives eventually,” Natasha adds. “It's just too far.”

“A very sad prospect,” Fandral says and raises his glass. “Let's drink to the hope that it will be a long time until that happens.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Alright, but what exactly are your intentions here?” Bucky asks. “Just to be clear.”

Natalia looks frustrated, pacing around. “I already told you.”

“Yes, but- why?” Bucky repeats. “Nobody is ever going to challenge you to a duel. Unless, of course, well, I don't know what you're up to in Russia. But you said you wanted to be able to look after yourself.”

“Yes, I said that,” Natalia replies impatiently. “And?”

“Well, a small sword is not a bad weapon and all, and it's very light, which is good for you,” Bucky admits. “But if somebody were to attack you with a sabre or a rapier, that wouldn't be a very good choice. Look, Ivan the bear has a rapier, too.”

“So, what would you suggest?” Natalia asks coldly.

“I don't think you should have a sword at all,” Bucky says. “I mean, are you going to carry it around at all times? Of course not. A knife would be better, you could at least hide that. Nobody expects you to have any weapon at all, so the element of surprise should be enough if you do it right. Or just get a small gun and learn to shoot.”

“I know how to shoot, you idiot,” Natalia hisses. Bucky blushes, thinking about what Sharon said. “Let’s just continue, shall we.”

He just can't say no to her. He sighs and goes back into position. “Just stop trying to slash. This is a thrusting weapon.”

“I'm just wondering,” Natalia remarks, easily parrying his half-assed attack. “If a small sword is so terrible, why do you, as a soldier, use it?”

“Well, in a real battle, guns and bayonets and such would be of more importance,” Bucky explains, blocking her. “It's just a fancy sword. I mean, you can stab someone with it, naturally, and it's great for duelling against another small sword. Other than that, the only real advantage is that it's light. I actually think it's just used in duels because it's cleaner.”

“How so?” Natalia asks, intrigued to the point that he can graze her padded forearm.

Bucky takes a step back, lets her rearrange. “Well, if you stab someone in the stomach, let's say Rumlow… there'd be a fair amount of blood, but most of the damage would be internal. However, if you slashed him open with a rapier, all his guts would fly out and- excuse me.”

She looks greatly amused and not at all disgusted. “So you're saying it's all just etiquette and not at all practical.”

“I guess,” he agrees. “You could put it that way.”

“Well, that certainly makes me feel better about wearing a corset,” Natalia replies, taking position and leaving her right side badly covered. “Which is also about good posture and etiquette and not about being able to fully breathe.”

“I think it's good you left it at home,” he remarks carefully. “Though you do seem to move a little insecurely without it.”

She snorts softly. Her right sight is still screaming at him to take a stab. “It does feel strange, yes. I'm not used to that.”

“But you don't wear it all the time, if you don't mind me asking,” he states. “For instance, to sleep.”

“Yes, but I put it on in the morning and don't take it off until evening,” she replies. “I haven't left the house without one since I was, I don't know, ten maybe.”

“Did your aunt and uncle notice?” he asks.

“I put on a coat despite the good weather,” she answers. “No, only the maid I asked to take it off.”

He sighs. Her side. “Look, you've got to- your hips are wrong. Your right side is not covered.”

She shifts, making it even worse. “No, the other way. No, that's too much, you can't be stable like that. Just-”

He pulls his hand back. Ivan the bear is always watching. “Just show me,” she interrupts impatiently.

He extends his hand but stops again. “I can't touch _ your hip _ .”

She rolls her eyes and puts a gloved hand on her side. “Here?”

Okay, he can touch her hand. He carefully does, pushing indirectly against her waist. “Like- yeah, like this. Then you're covered.”

Her fingers slip apart so that he comes in contact with her riding coat. He pulls back but Ivan the bear does not shoot him yet. She blinks. “You know what I mean?”

“Oh,” she replies slowly. “Yes.”

They both take their position again. She still has that gracefulness in all her movements. He wonders how she dances. Has he ever seen her dance?

She grazes his thigh. He needs to focus again. She steps back. “You know, Miss Carter invited me to her home on Tuesday and I thought of bringing some books, Homer and Seneca and such. Do you think she would appreciate that?”

“Sharon doesn't speak Greek,” Bucky reflexively replies. “She doesn't have that sort of classical education.”

“Oh, that's absolutely not a problem,” Natalia brushes away. “I can teach her if she would like.”

“Well, ask her, I would assume,” Bucky suggests.

“I don't want to make her feel inadequate,” Natalia says. “Maybe it would be better to bring a French book, or Italian.”

“She did learn French,” Bucky states, feeling suddenly inadequate himself. Well, he is only a Sergeant after all and she is a future Duchess. Even Sharon is above him in rang, even though he never felt that way. “So maybe that would be better.”

“I will do that, then,” Natalia decides, getting back into position. “Have you ever been to France?”

“No,” he admits. “But I know it is a huge mess right now.”

She snorts. “Oh, what a simplistic view. It is much more complicated than that.”

“You can discuss that with Steve,” he returns sourly. “He also cares about what happens overseas and all.”

“And you just don't,” she states. “Even though you are a soldier and might be sent there at any point.”

“I'll see then,” he blocks. “What's it to you?”

“I have family there,” she says. “I have family all over Europe, in fact.”

Of course she does. “Well, I hope they're fine in the mess over there.”

She snorts. “Oh, you idiot.”

He flushes again. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because you  _ are _ ,” she replies. “I'm sure Mister Wilson agrees with me.”

Yes, Sam definitely would. “Look, not everyone speaks Greek and Latin and French and whatever. Most people don't, in fact, and if you don't like that, just go back to wherever all your smart people are.”

“So, you want me to go back?” she asks with interest.

No. Of course not. “I mean, that's really not my decision. If you want to go back.”

She smiles, wickedly. “What if I don't?”

It almost knocks the breath out of him. “You mean, like, ever?”

“Yeah,” she confirms, casually, taking a stab that he barely blocks. “What if I didn't go back at all?”

“Well,” he replies, clearly stalling. “Your parents would disinherit you, I guess.”

“They would,” she agrees.

“It would be a major scandal,” he adds. “You'd seriously lose standing in society. You'd have little money, little possibilities.”

“I'd probably need to marry someone just to provide for myself,” she says. “Which would not be easy, due to all the scandal.”

“Well, I assume you are not going to do any of that,” he states.

“Exactly,” she confirms. “But don't worry, I'll push my return back for a while.”

“Again, that's really not my decision,” he repeats. “Whatever you do.”

She shrugs, parrying his hit elegantly. “Of course. It isn't really mine either.”

“You always say that like you regret it,” he remarks before thinking again. “But then you say you don't.”

She snorts. “You really need everything to be absolutely simple, don't you?”

“Why does it have to be complicated?” he asks back. “Do you want a break?”

“I'm good,” she replies. “I feel like you really don't understand that it just is complicated.”

“What's it to you?” he asks again. “I'm not trying to make you stay. I'm really not.”

“But you are reproaching me for obeying my parents,” she says. “And for spending my time with things you don't find useful, like this or Greek literature. Why, what would you have me do?”

“I obviously don't get to tell you what to do,” he deflects. “I’m not your father or your husband or anything.”

“Oh, please,” she snorts. “Just tell me. I want to know.”

He sighs. “I mean, if it makes you happy, sure, do whatever. But I have the feeling you just do it to impress other people, because you think it is expected of you.”

“Then what do you think I enjoy doing?” she probes.

“I don't know,” he replies but ventures a guess anyway. “You look like you enjoy dancing.”

Her eyebrows go up. “I hate dancing.”

“You don't move like it,” he returns, thrusting at her in a way that makes her dodge in a swift, fluent, elegant movement.

She seems actually unsettled. She lowers her sword, looking back at Ivan the bear who looks as displeased as ever. “Maybe I should go back now.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, putting his sword away. “Before you are disinherited and all.”

She looks even more unsettled. “Are you attending the ball at the Murdock's on Saturday?”

“I haven't been invited,” he replies. “She is getting engaged, isn't she, the daughter?”

“Yes,” Natalia replies insecurely. “Yes. She is.”

“Well, I haven't been invited,” he repeats. “But I hope you enjoy yourself.”

“Why are you like that?” she asks. “So… simple?”

He snorts. “I work for my money. That is it.”

“I've never heard anyone say that,” she says.

He grins. Can't help it. “Maybe you do spend your time with the wrong people.”

She snorts. “Well, I'm going over to Miss Carter on Tuesday. She is not exactly working on a crop field either.”

“Well, at least Steve is earning his salary,” he returns. “So, that's something.”

“Stop criticizing my choice in fiancé,” she says. “That wasn't even my choice.”

“Are you almost complaining again?” he asks. “Come on. Just decide if you're happy with it or not. You can't be both.”

“Watch me,” she replies coldly. “All right, the hip thing, anything else?”

He blinks in confusion. She snorts. “Any other tips, you idiot?”

Oh. “Oh. No, I don't- no, I think you're good.”

“Fine,” she states. “I'll send a note through Sharon if I want to do this again.”

“I really hope that's not why you befriended her,” he remarks. “That would be vile.”

“No, I like her, much more than you actually,” she replies coldly. “Much more. And she shoots excellently.”

“She does,” he agrees. “Well, then I hope you enjoy her company.”

“Oh my,” she says. “Now I understand. You're just bad at being polite.”

He snorts. “Weren't you going to leave?”

She smiles wickedly again. “And now you're throwing me out? You don't even live here.”

“Look, if you can't stand my manners, just-” Leave. He's talking in circles here. “Jesus Christ. Leave or don't leave. Just do one  _ or  _ the other.”

“How would I do both at the same time?” she asks. “Sitting in the coach but not driving?”

“How about talking about leaving but still standing here?” he suggests sourly.

She smiles again. “I said I should leave, not that I would leave. But if it's such a nuisance to you…”

He regrets it when she walks over to Ivan the bear and exchanges a few Russian words with him. “Well, thank you,” she says, switching back. “And until next time.”

“I'll see that Sam can be here next time,” he adds. “If you're more comfortable that way.”

“Did I seem uncomfortable to you?” she asks back. “But if that makes you feel safe from me stabbing you, by all means, do so.”

He snorts. “You wouldn't be able to.”

“We'll see,” she replies, getting in the coach. “Next time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect daily updates during Buckynat week!


	7. Chapter 7

“Oh my,” Sharon says. “It's been a long time since I practised my French. Steve might speak it better than I do, in fact.”

“Don't worry, we'll get through it together,” Natasha replies smoothly. “I thought you might like some deep thoughts.”

Sharon sighs. “We'll see. Come, please, I've had the  _ salle à thé  _ prepared.”

Just having Natasha walking through here makes the whole house seem more noble than it is. “You have it very pretty here,” Natasha remarks casually. “I like the style of English country houses. You will move out when you marry?”

Sharon sighs again. “Yes. My cousin will inherit the house, since I don't have any brothers. If my cousin doesn't want it, because he is considering emigrating to America, it will actually go to Sam before they would give it to me.”

Natasha snorts. “Well, with three brothers, that does not exactly affect me, but that does seem stupid.”

“Exactly,” Sharon agrees, pointing to a chair. “Here. Please sit. Would you like tea?”

“Yes, please,” Natasha says, looking intently at the prepared pot and pastries. “But all of that really wouldn't have been necessary.”

“I wanted to,” Sharon insists, filling Natasha's cup. “Do you drink tea in Russia?”

“Yes, a lot,” Natasha replies, taking the cup back. “It might even be more than here, especially in the East. We boil water in a heated metal container called  _ samovar  _ and we mix the water with tea concentrate. My aunt has one, too.”

“Really?” Sharon fills her own cup. “I'd like to see it sometime.”

“Well, maybe you would like to visit me sometime,” Natasha invites. “To drink tea.”

“I would love to.” Sharon sits down. “So, did you stab Bucky in the neck again, if you don't mind me asking?”

Natasha laughs, even now really fashionable. “Oh, no, I didn't. Not for lack of trying though. I think he is on to my style.”

“He has been training for a lot longer than you have,” Sharon remarks. “It would be only natural. Is it fun, training with him?”

“It does feel powerful to be able to block him and such,” Natasha tells her. “But he can be a real nuisance.”

Sharon laughs, taking a pastry. “Oh, you noticed.”

“It is hard not to,” Natasha replies. “But I do believe he is a good teacher. He trains the cadets as well, is that true?”

“Sometimes,” Sharon agrees. “They usually don't enjoy it like you do, though.”

Natasha smiles. “Maybe they are just bad at it.”

Sharon smiles. “Oh my, I would love to see you. In fact, I would like to try it myself.”

“Well, I'm certain you could convince your fiancé,” Natasha suggests.

“I already made him promise,” Sharon tells her. “But only when we are finally married. And not if I'm expecting.”

“Reasonable,” Natasha agrees. “You are already talking about children, then? Do you mind if I ask how old you are?”

Sharon blushes. “18. Why, how old are you?”

Natasha blinks in confusion. “Oh. I'm 23.”

“You're 23?” Sharon repeats in surprise. “Steve is 23. Oh, I'm sorry, I was just surprised. I would have thought you were younger.”

“My parents wanted me to enjoy a thorough education before I was betrothed,” Natasha explains. “So I would strike the best possible match. So I learned Latin and Greek, maths and philosophy and a few instruments as well.”

“But not swordfighting,” Sharon remarks. “Well, that would probably not help you attract suitors.”

“It would be hard to showcase that,” Natasha agrees. “And it might be rather repulsing.”

“Well, I guess you don't have to worry about that anymore, now that you're betrothed,” Sharon says. “Do you feel like your education is worth anything, beyond the search for a husband?”

“Absolutely.” Natasha takes a pastry as well. “I like reading and thinking about these things. Philosophy, history, even politics. You know, Russia is ruled by a woman at the moment, Catherine the Great.”

Sharon blinks. “What? How so?”

“She instigated a coup against her husband,” Natasha tells calmly. “Who died in the process. And she had a lot of support among the nobility, so she became the ruler of Russia.”

“That would never happen in England,” Sharon says. “They would make the great-great-cousin king before letting a woman do it.”

“Well, she was born a German princess and her husband was not very popular,” Natasha adds. “We had a few female emperors this century, in fact, though some of them were only marionettes for people behind them.”

“This may sound stupid,” Sharon starts. “But you are definitely never going to rule Russia?”

Natasha laughs and sips her tea coyly. “I have three older brothers. I'm never getting anything.”

“Well, unless something happens to all three of them,” Sharon remarks. “Which would be absolutely horrible, of course.”

“I think I am fine where I am,” Natasha says. “And I of course wouldn't want anything to happen to my brothers.”

“Of course,” Sharon repeats. “Shall we start reading?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Natasha puts a book on the table. “I brought this. Jean-Jacques Rousseau,  _ Du contrat social _ . It is about politics and society in this age of enlightenment.”

“That sounds awfully important,” Sharon replies, opening the book. “Shall I read it out loud?”

“Please do,” Natasha says. “It’s best if we go through it slowly.”

They are a few pages in when there is a knock on the door. A servant comes in with a letter for Sharon. “Do you mind if I read that quickly?” Sharon asks.

“Not at all,” Natasha replies.

Sharon flushes already after a few sentences. “Oh. Oh my…”

Natasha waits patiently until Sharon is all through. She gets up quickly. “Excuse me. I just have to…”

“Who is it from?” Natasha asks calmly.

Sharon opens a drawer, grabs some paper and sits down to write. “My sister. From Scotland. She writes that she will be- that she will come here in about two weeks.”

“And now you're writing to your fiancé,” Natasha states.

“Yes,” Sharon replies, scratching over the paper. “If you don't mind. I will be quick.”

“Oh, please, take your time,” Natasha returns with amusement. “So. You are indeed getting married. Finally, one might say.”

“I really don't know what to say,” Sharon murmurs, frantically writing and crossing out and writing again. “Oh God. Well, maybe she won't actually come, one never knows.”

“I believe she will,” Natasha assures, sounding secure without any reason to. “You shouldn't worry about that.”

Sharon lets the ink dry, gets up and calls a servant to inform her parents. Then she folds the note and sends a messenger to her fiancé Steve. Finally, she closes the door and is alone again with Natasha who is smiling patiently, hands folded in her lap. “I'm sorry. I just really needed to take care of that.”

“Absolutely, I understand,” Natasha replies calmly. “How are you feeling?”

Sharon sits down again and touches her cheeks. Warm. “I don't know. Nervous. Elated.”

“I have never seen a Protestant wedding,” Natasha remarks. “Is it going to be a big event?”

“No, not big,” Sharon murmurs, still trying to hide her flushed cheeks. “Just family and friends. A small church. We will, of course, have to give a ball.”

“Are you going on honeymoon, though?” Natasha asks. “Well, you still have enough time to figure it all out. Three weeks should be enough.”

“I'm sorry, I'm really excitable right now,” Sharon whispers. “Well. My mother is going to cry, now that I also move out.”

“She will be fine,” Natasha assures her. “I'm sure she is very happy for you.”

“Yes, yes,” Sharon murmurs. “I'm sorry. I really don't think I'll be able to continue reading.”

“Oh, you can keep the book until you are through,” Natasha offers. “Don't worry. This is without a doubt more important.”

Sharon sighs deeply. “I can't believe this. I need to speak to the priest. I need to buy a dress. I need to put an announcement in the newspaper.”

“Yes,” Natasha agrees, sipping on her tea. “But all of that can wait. Tell me, are you happy?”

“I-” Sharon slingers under Natasha's inquisitive blue eyes, studying her over the rim of the teacup, searching. “I am- I am just overwhelmed right now.”

“Understandably,” Natasha remarks, putting the cup down elegantly. “But go into yourself, into your soul. Are you happy?”

Sharon breathes deeply. “Yes. I am. Of course. Why are you asking?”

“Oh, I was just curious.” Natasha brushes something off her dress, the epitome of casualness. “Since this is such an important moment for you.”

“I'm sure you will be happy too,” Sharon ventures. “When you get married.”

Natasha smiles at the pastry on her plate. “Yes. Certainly.”

“If there is something you want to tell me, please, do so,” Sharon offers. “I will not tell a soul, I promise.”

Natasha sighs. “No, no. It's nothing. Thank you.”

“Are you having doubts about marrying?” Sharon asks. “That would, of course, be perfectly understandable, given what you told me, that you don't even know your fiancé.”

“One cannot have doubts about the inevitable,” Natasha returns coldly. “You cannot doubt the rising sun or the eventual rain.”

“Of course,” Sharon retreats. “Of course. You're right. I was just wondering- just because it is inevitable, you don't have to like it and look forward to it.”

“My feelings do not matter,” Natasha reminds her simply.

“Well, but what  _ are _ your feelings?” Sharon inquires.

Natasha sighs deeply. “You will not tell a living soul?”

“Yes,” Sharon confirms eagerly. “Living or not. Not a soul.”

“I am afraid,” Natasha admits. “Well, I have been for a long time. But I also became confused more recently.”

Sharon chews on her lip, fascinated by so much honesty. “How so?”

“I started forgetting that I was engaged,” Natasha tells her. “I had to remind myself. I realized I had, subconsciously, just assumed I would stay here forever.”

“You have been here for a year,” Sharon remarks. “It is only natural. Especially if you are afraid of going back.”

Natasha sighs. “Well, if you really swear to God you are not going to tell anyone about this… when I was training with Sergeant Barnes, two days ago, he wanted to correct my posture, of course, but naturally, he could not touch my waist, so I put my hand there so he wouldn't have to, so he could push against that. However, my fingers slipped apart, intentionally or unintentionally, and his fingertips touched my coat and… it felt very confusing. I've never felt that way before.”

“Because he touched your waist?” Sharon repeats.

“Brushed against it,” Natasha corrects hastily. “Yes.”

“I mean, that sounds exciting,” Sharon remarks. “Very private. Intimate.”

“No, no, that's really not it,” Natasha hurries to say. “It was not like that. You know, coat and gloves and- it was really just a bit of pressure.”

“Still,” Sharon insists. “Or how do you feel about it?”

Natasha sighs. “I don't know. I really don't know.”

Sharon smiles. “Do you still feel the touch sometimes?”

“Yes,” Natasha replies, surprised. “How do you know?”

Sharon grins wickedly. “Well, when Steve touches my hand or my arm- the feeling lingers.”

Natasha looks at her wide-eyed. “Excuse me. I should probably leave you to your preparations.”

“Oh, no problem, you were not bothering me at all,” Sharon says, getting up. “Thank you for the book.”

Natasha, clearly having caught herself, smiles. “Absolutely. I hope you enjoy it. If you find time to read, that is.”

“It is going to be three busy weeks,” Sharon acknowledges. “But I would still hope to see you again. Maybe to drink tea at your home.”

Natasha looks like she has totally forgotten about that. “Oh, yes! Yes. I will send you a note.”

“Thank you.” Sharon curtsies out of habit. “And I will gladly pass on any other notes if you so desire.”

“That won't be necessary,” Natasha replies briskly. “But thank you for your invitation. And good luck for your wedding.”


	8. Chapter 8

“So, she didn't write you again,” Sam states casually, swirling his glass between his fingers.

Bucky snorts. “No. Can't we go back to talking about your pony?”

“Absolutely,” Sam offers. “But you weren't really interested in that, you made that very clear.”

Bucky sighs. “No, no, tell me all about it. I'll pretend to be listening.”

“My God, you're still watching her,” Sam states. “Stop it. You're probably scaring her.”

Bucky snorts again. “You weren't there. She's really good. Probably better than Rumlow.”

“That's no excuse to be a creep,” Sam argues. “Just look at Sharon. She seems really happy.”

Sharon is conversing with a group of friends of her mother, beaming. “So, you want me to stop staring at Natalia and stare at Sharon instead,” Bucky says. “That's so much better.”

Sam snorts. “Come on. Don't they teach you manners at the regiment?”

“They don't,” Bucky confirms, even though he is well aware Sam was being sarcastic. “Where is Steve, by the way? He should be with her.”

“He can't be far.” Sam frowns. “I mean, you're not wrong about Romanoff, she definitely moves like a dancer.”

“See?” Bucky replies excitedly. “Of course. I don't know why she said she hates dancing.”

“Just because she used to dance doesn't mean she liked it,” Sam reminds him. “Maybe she hated it and had to do it anyway.”

“Why do you have to make everything so complicated,” Bucky complains. “She even mentioned not going back at all but then she said she would definitely not do that. That's just plain confusing.”

“Women are complicated,” Sam muses. “So I've been told at least. I know more about ponies.”

“Yeah, but Sharon is-  _ easy _ ,” Bucky insists. “Really straightforward. You know what I mean. She's easy to understand.”

“Yeah, because you know her well,” Sam replies. “And because you were not subtly trying to find out whether she is interested in you. Don't you remember Steve's whining?”

“I'm not trying to find out whether she is interested in me,” Bucky pretends. “Of course she isn't. You remind me of that all the time.”

“Exactly,” Sam agrees. “And if she were, that would be a huge problem. You understand that, right?”

“Why does everyone keep telling me that?” Bucky complains. “I know. Trust me, I know. And she's not going to do that.”

“You should also keep to ponies,” Sam suggests. “They are true friends.”

Bucky spares him his response because Sharon comes sauntering over. “Oh no, you two are standing there again.”

“What's wrong with standing?” Sam asks innocently, raising his glass slightly.

Sharon snorts. “How about you mingle a bit?”

“Where's your sister, by the way?” Sam asks. “I thought she was supposed to be here.”

“She's tired, she's upstairs,” Sharon answers. “Long travel. But you can come for tea tomorrow afternoon, she'll be there. If you behave.”

Bucky ignores that she's looking his way. Yeah, he had had a crush on Peggy in the past, but she had clearly not reciprocated, instead being more interested in Steve, who in turn was absolutely smitten with her little sister. It had been complicated. But they had been young and now they were through with it. “Of course, you never need to worry about my manners,” Sam assures her. “Oh, look, it's Barton. Excuse me.”

“I'll behave,” Bucky says. “Don't worry.”

Sharon snorts. “I'm not sure she is  _ quite  _ happy for me. But then again, she is married, it's been two years.”

“I don't even remember exactly what she looked like,” Bucky admits.

“You know, if you don't mind, I would like to invite Natasha as well,” Sharon says. “She hasn't been talking to me lately and I would like to see her.”

“Of course, if you want,” Bucky says. “I mean, if she doesn't mind. I don't know.”

“I hate to do this but-” Sharon sighs. “If she doesn't want you there, would it be okay if you didn't come? It's just this once. Of course, you'll have to be at the wedding.”

Bucky snorts. “Of course that's okay. Why, did she say something?”

“I… really can't tell you,” Sharon says slowly.

“Wait,” Bucky interrupts. “But she said something? Did I do something?”

Sharon sighs. “Just two women having a chat. No, you're fine. I don't know, it's complicated.”

Bucky groans. “Oh, not again.”

“Maybe it's nothing and you can come,” Sharon encourages. “I'll ask her. Now, where is my oh so reliable fiancé?”

Bucky snorts. “Hell if I know. He should be here.”

“Indeed he should,” Sharon agrees. “Well, whatever. I'll go ask Natasha.”

 

Natasha says nothing, not a word about not inviting Bucky, so Sharon does. Peggy helps her set the table instead of letting the servants do it, telling her all sorts of juicy things in the process. When Steve and Bucky arrive, Sharon's cheeks are the colour of ripe apples.

She asks Steve to help her with the tea so they can be alone in the kitchen, albeit with the door open. Bucky and Peggy stay in the hallway. Peggy studies him with interest. “Well, you look like you finally grew up.”

Bucky snorts, fiddling with his hat. “Thanks.”

“It's interesting because Steve is younger than you,” Peggy remarks. “Then again, Steve has always been very mature.”

“Which is why he is Captain,” Bucky agrees. “He’ll probably be Colonel in no time.”

A coach drives into the yard. Lily goes to open it. Peggy smiles. “Yes, yes. Sharon certainly will be doing well.”

“How is your… husband?” Bucky asks awkwardly but forgets all his discomfort when he sees Natalia climbing out of the coach.

“He's fine. A good man,” Peggy states disconcertedly. “Oh my, we should go get Sharon.”

Natasha smiles, walking up the stairs in a rather humble champagne dress. Seeing her still knocks the wind out of him. “Oh, hello. You must be Sharon's sister.”

“Indeed.” Peggy curtsies. Bucky fiddles nervously with his hat. “You must be Miss Romanoff.”

Luckily, Sharon comes down the hall excitedly and kisses Natasha. “Oh, hello! I'm so glad you are here.”

Natasha smiles. “As am I.”

Peggy's eyes narrow, probably because Bucky is staring helplessly. “Come, come, please,” Sharon urges them. “Let's go have some tea.”

Steve is sitting on the sofa but gets up to bow to Natasha, which she returns with a curtsy. Bucky's stomach is floating. The ladies settle around the table, Bucky sits next to Steve, watching them from across the room. They start talking about since when Natasha is here and why. Bucky pretends unsuccessfully not to listen. “Sam should be here by now, shouldn't he?” Steve asks.

Bucky snorts, discontent because he missed a whole sentence from Natalia. “And he was complaining about my manners.”

“Your manners  _ are _ bad,” Steve returns. “But maybe his pony was just more important than us. That sounds fair.”

Bucky loses the thread of conversation because he's watching Natalia fold her gloved hands in her lap. He remembers touching her hand. Oh, he knows what he saw in Peggy, the awe-inspiring confidence, but with Natalia, it's so completely natural, so self-evident-

“The Empress,” Natalia corrects politely. “Catherine II.”

“Tell me again how she became Empress,” Sharon demands.

“Well, she married the Tsar,” Natasha starts casually. “Then she overthrew him in a _coup d'Etat_ , with support from the military and important noblemen, in which he died. Her son was too young to rule so she took over and kept the throne for almost thirty years now.”

“Wait,” Steve interrupts. “So, she just killed her husband?”

All three women turn, as if he had said something scandalous. “He was taken prisoner and then killed,” Natasha explains calmly. “One can argue whether that was her intention.”

“Look, don't get me wrong,” Steve defends. “But having your spouse executed is just wrong.”

Sharon snorts in her with-the-men-manner, not the polite society manner. “My dear. Have you read nothing about Henry VIII?”

“That's also bad,” Steve concedes. “Can we just agree that murdering your spouse is bad, no matter the circumstances?”

Sharon smiles happily. “Oh, dear. Don't worry.”

“I wasn't even talking about me!” Steve complains.

Lily opens the door and Sam comes in. “Good afternoon, ladies, excuse my belatedness- oh, hello Peggy, how are you?”

Peggy smiles, extending a hand for him to kiss it. “I'm very well, thank you, Sam. I have recovered from the coach ride.”

Sam nods to the other two, addressing them, then turns to see Steve and Bucky sitting on the couch. “Oh, guys, don't bother getting up.”

Bucky snorts. “How is your pony, Wilson?”

“Good, good, Barton actually had some useful tips,” Sam tells him sitting down. “So, Steve, how are your nerves?”

Steve sighs. “We were just discussing whether it is wrong to murder your spouse. Which it clearly is, under all circumstances.”

“But what if your spouse is a tyrant?” Sharon asks. “A cruel king, for example, torturing innocent people. Then killing him would save other people's lives.”

“One could argue, like Immanuel Kant, that killing is always wrong by itself,” Natasha suggests. “No matter your intention or the consequences. Just like lying is wrong, even if you save your own life with it.”

“That sounds stupid,” Bucky remarks.

Peggy snorts. Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Would you care to elaborate on that, Mister Barnes?”

“Well, it clearly matters what consequences your actions have,” Bucky says. “That might even be the only thing that matters.”

“But what about intentions, though?” Peggy asks. “What if the consequences don't match your intentions? Are you still guilty?”

“Depends on whether you could have, should have known,” Bucky replies. “If you did, then yes.”

“So if your natural deficiencies, for example low intellect, prevent you from parsing the consequences of your actions,” Natasha supposes. “Then you are always innocent? How do you judge whether someone should have known better?”

Bucky blinks. “You mean, how do I know if someone is stupid?”

Sam snorts. “Oh, Barnes, just admit you are out of your depth. The ladies are simply smarter than you.”

“No, please, let him finish,” Natasha interrupts. “I want to hear the end of it.”

“Well, I find it too easy that things could be just wrong out of themselves,” Bucky says slowly. “Killing, for example. If killing was wrong under all circumstances, we wouldn't have soldiers.”

“Or all soldiers would be murderers,” Natasha suggests.

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, I'd rather not believe that.”

Sharon fans herself. “Oh, my head is spinning. Does anyone want to play cards?”

Natasha doesn't, but Steve can be convinced and Peggy is always in. Bucky reluctantly goes to sit with Natasha, even though she barely acknowledges him over her book. He sighs. Steve is not quite sure how to play. Sharon kicks him under the table.

“So, you think I am a murderer,” he says. Great conversation starter. Really, bravo, Barnes.

“I didn't say that,” Natalia replies calmly, not looking up. “Why, did you kill someone?”

He watches her nimble fingers, the gloves discarded, her elegant neck, her perfect posture. “Yes.”

Her gaze darts toward him. “Oh. Do you feel sorry for it?”

“A bit,” he allows, fascinated by her blue eyes.

“I'm sure that counts in your favour,” she says, looking back at her book.

Peggy is winning another round, as usual. Sam looks like he really enjoys it. Sharon tries to explain Steve what he has done wrong. “So, if you maintain that you hate dancing, you are basically admitting that you did dance,” Bucky suggests.

Natasha snorts. “Of course. Everyone dances.”

“Yes, but not everyone moves the way you do,” Bucky insists. “Just the way you hold your elbows.”

Natasha looks down at her arms, reflexively straightening her shoulders. “Is it that obvious?”

“To be honest,” he admits quietly. “I've been watching you. A lot.”

She snorts, closing her book. “I am aware. Well, my mother wanted me to learn ballet, for elegance and good posture and everything, but yes, I've always hated it. It seems I just can't shake it.”

Bucky smiles. “It suits you.”

“Let me tell you,” she says, looking down at her book again. “It can be quite painful.”


	9. Chapter 9

“I don't know about her,” Peggy whispers. “Sure, she seems nice, but there is something disingenuous about her.”

Bucky sighs, clenching his hands behind his back. “That's your opinion.”

The service continues. Natasha is sitting farther behind, on the other side. Where he definitely can't watch her. “I'm telling you,” Peggy hisses. “This woman is serious trouble.”

Sharon shifts on her feet nervously. Steve's neck is slightly pink. “Why are you telling me this?” Bucky murmurs.

Peggy snorts. “Barnes, everyone sees you fawning upon her and her pretended accent. My God. Men.”

Bucky sighs and says nothing. Sharon and Steve turn toward each other, Steve struggling to get the ring on her finger. He blushes even more.

“If it comforts you,” Peggy mutters. “You're not the only one.”

Bucky's hands clench again. He knows, oh, he knows. Not that it concerns him. Not that it matters. He barely notices Sharon putting the ring on Steve.

Applaus surges when Steve kisses her hands. Sharon is crying happily, the veil slipping back over her face. Oh, Steve is crying, too. My God.

Nobody has it as bad as Sharon's mother, though, which at least keeps Peggy occupied. Sam, the only one with a cool head, ushers the happy couple down the aisle. Sharon's mother wails. Peggy hugs her warmly.

They make it outside before the coach with the newlyweds leaves so they can wave them goodbye. Sharon's mother blows her nose and whines about her good daughters and how they're all leaving her. Bucky tunes out, staring at the coach in the distance.

Natasha is talking to Barton, for some reason. Peggy comes up to him again, looking where he is looking. “You’re really one for the hopeless cases, aren't you? You know, this way, you'll never leave this place with a girl at your side.”

“I know,” Bucky says slowly. People start leaving. “I just don't care.”

“You just can't help yourself, can you?” Peggy asks. “Oh, Aunt Maria. How good to see you.”

Maria kisses both of Peggy's cheeks. “I'm so happy you came down here. Such a big day for Sharon and she urgently wanted you to be here.”

“I'm glad I came,” Peggy agrees, smiling. “They are truly perfect for each other.”

A knowing look passes over Maria's face but she blinks and it's gone. “Well, Sergeant Barnes, it is clearly your turn now.”

Bucky snorts. “I find that very unfair. You should be bothering Sam.”

“Oh, yes, I should,” Maria agrees. “My nephew. Have you seen him, by any chance? I don't know where he went.”

“He is over there,” Peggy announces. “Talking to Miss Romanoff.”

Maria turns. “Oh. I better not bother him, then. She is a true delight.”

“You know her?” Peggy asks with interest. “How so?”

“Her uncle stays at the ressort,” Maria explains. “Her aunt visits sometimes as well and sometimes she is with them. If you don't tell anyone, I can assure you her aunt can be quite difficult to deal with, but Natasha is very dutiful and always good-natured towards her.”

“I have not met her aunt,” Peggy says. “Do they give balls sometimes?”

“No, never,” Maria replies. “Since her aunt and especially her uncle are rather sickly, they do not participate much in community life.”

“So she is mostly alone,” Peggy states. “That is certainly unusual.”

“Well, she is betrothed and she is very mature in public,” Maria remarks. “But yes, rather unusual.”

“Well, Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy turns. “What do you think?”

Bucky snorts. “I think… if you have that much money, you can do whatever you want.”

Maria laughs. “You're not wrong about that. Just look at the lace on her collar. But mostly, she has to follow the same rules all of us do.”

“The same rules all women have to follow,” Peggy corrects. “Which consist, mostly, of not allowing us to do anything useful.”

“Don't look at me like that,” Bucky replies. “It wasn't my idea.”

“Yes, but are you doing anything about it?” Peggy asks. “Because if not, those are just empty words.”

He almost tells her about the sword training with Natalia. God, he hopes Sharon didn't tell her. “I don't even know what I would do about it.”

“Ah, the youth,” Maria sighs. “Well, I'll leave you to it, I need to console your mother.”

Natasha has disappeared by now. Sam is coming over. “Sharon gave me her handkerchief. It's soaked.”

“Tears of joy,” Peggy muses. “Or she just realized this was her last day in freedom.”

Sam snorts. “I don't even know what that means. You always say these weird things.”

“Well, think about it,” Peggy encourages. “You know what, I think you should ask Miss Romanoff to host a ball. I would like to know how she lives.”

“You're not even going to be here for that long,” Sam argues. “Are you?”

“Oh, another week or two.” Peggy shakes her head. “It pains me to say but I already miss Scotland.”

“How dare you say such a thing,” Sam interrupts, appalled. “There is nothing more beautiful than the land of England.”

Bucky snorts. “The land of England. Really?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Sam returns. “The land of Eng?”

Peggy snorts. “Oh, God. I'm going to leave.”

 

Bucky can't get the image of Steve and Sharon out of his head, Steve and Sharon in front of the altar, Steve and Sharon in the coach, waving and beaming, and also Peggy's voice saying that he'll never ever have that if he continues like this. It's not that he doesn't care, that was a plain lie. He's just resigned, to fate, to his changing passions. If he falls in love with a different but equally unattainable woman every year, how could he ever marry?

“You know, I thought about what my intentions are,” Natalia remarks, angling her sword, ready to stab at any moment, as soon as he makes a mistake. “Namely, to do what I want.”

He snorts. “And you want to learn sword fighting, just for fun?”

“Is that strange?” Natalia asks, prancing forward. “Don't you think if you hadn't had to learn it, for whatever reason, you would still want to, out of pure enjoyment?”

He doesn't even remember a time before he had learnt it. It was so ingrained in him. He couldn't imagine having a choice in the matter. “I suppose so.”

“I don't think it unreasonable to have such a desire,” Natasha remarks. “In fact, what else would I desire?”

He snorts again. “Well, you already have the money and everything else.”

She blocks, amused look on her face. “You know, I never even think about money unless you mention it.”

“Of course,” he replies. “That's what you do when you have it.”

She studies him, suddenly lancing forward. “You can't be doing that bad. You're a Sergeant, you live with the regiment, you even got handed that uniform you wear almost constantly. You don't have wife or children. So, you have a stable income and almost no expenses.”

“That's not the same,” he argues, parrying. “I couldn't throw money around like you do.”

“But no one expects you to either,” she returns. “You couldn't imagine what all the ladies at court would say if I wore the same dress twice to a ball.”

He snorts. “Oh, that sounds terrible.”

She steps back, lowering her sword. “Why are you mocking me?”

He shrugs. “You seem almost unreal.”

“Trust me, I'm very real.” She raises her sword again. “And my worries and problems are as well.”

“Why do you care?” he asks. “If you're so above anyone anyway?”

“Here I am,” she concedes. “Here, I can do what I want if I do it discreetly. If I somehow overstepped at the Russian court, my family will treat me with disdain, my husband will see it fit to rein me in, and if my missteps are considered too grave, they will all cast me out and I will have absolutely nothing.”

“Maybe don't do that,” he advises. “What would you have to do to get thrown out?”

She snorts. “Well, for instance, meeting with you alone. Vanya doesn't count. Of course, it always depends on whether anyone finds out, and who.”

Bucky snorts. Ivan isn't watching him all the time anymore but cleaning his gun instead. So much better.  “So, if he doesn't count, why is he even here?”

“Oh, he doesn't trust you,” Natalia explains, looking over her shoulder. “At all. Because I am just a good girl with a few bees in her bonnet, but you clearly have improper intentions here.”

Bucky blushes slightly and hopes she doesn't notice. Probably in vain. “Do you? Trust me?”

She turns her head again. “Well, you can certainly keep a secret. Why you do that, that's another matter.”

“Because you told me to and I mean you no harm,” he says. “Someone, however, thinks you are disingenuous.”

“Oh.” She raises her sword again. “Well, he or she is certainly right about that. And you only know some of my secrets.”

He didn't expect that answer. “Why, what else are you hiding?”

She laughs. “You already know too much about me. On a lighter note, have you heard anything from Sharon?”

It's been only a few days. “No, nothing. I would assume they're busy.”

She smirks like she knows exactly what he's talking about. She doesn't have the innocence of Sharon who blushes at the first vague reference. Well, maybe that will change now. “I would assume they will come back eventually.”

“Maybe she will tell you about it,” he suggests. “If that's something women talk about. I don't know.”

“Yes, you don't know,” she repeats. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You really couldn't pack less information in that many words. “Oh, I see. Now you don't tell me anything anymore.”

Natalia's smile is between mischievous and mocking. “Exactly. Why don't you tell me about yourself? What happened to your parents?”

“Dead,” he replies briefly, trying an attack but not getting through. “Long time ago. Grew up mostly with the regiment.”

“How did they die?” she asks.

He shrugs. “Drowned. On the way to the colonies. Former colonies now.”

“But they were going to leave you either way,” she states. “Or you would have drowned too.”

He grimaces. She's brutal. “They were Catholics. Thought I would have it better as an orphan.”

“Oh, I see.” She lowers her sword. “I'm sorry.”

“Come on,” he snorts. “We're not done.”

“Is that why you'll never reach a high rank in the military?” she asks, prancing around with impeccable guard. “Unlike Captain Rogers.”

“I'm just not like Steve,” he says. “Steve makes it look easy. And that, yes.”

“Are you Catholic, though?” she probes. “Or is that just the stain from your parents?”

“I'm not Catholic,” he insists. “But you are. And everyone is fine with you because you are rich and important.”

She looks amused. “Why do you think I'm Catholic?”

“Well, you're not Protestant,” he explains as if that's obvious.

She shakes her head. “No, no, we are Orthodox Christians. Neither Catholic nor Protestant. But having lived in Orthodox Russia, Catholic France and Protestant England, the main difference in my eyes is just style.”

He snorts. “I think your family would chastise you for saying that.”

“If they could hear me,” she points out. “And in that case, they would worry more about where I am and with who than about my faith.”

“Yeah, maybe you should just go,” he advises vaguely. “Before it's too late.”

“I could do that,” she muses. “Or I could do what I want.”

His stomach doesn't feel good. “Which is?”

She smiles. “Just stay a little longer.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Again,” Stark shouts. “I am very glad we all have come together on this wonderful day to my wonderful mansion on the side of this wonderful lake. Actually, you should all be thanking Mrs. Stark for her wonderful hospitality.”

Applause. Mrs. Stark rolls her eyes but smiles and waves briefly. “Now, if you are already tired of listening to me, I am deeply hurt,” Stark adds. “But you're also lucky, since I asked Miss Romanoff here for a presentation.”

Tense whispering as Natalia climbs up the wooden stairs, her brown skirt swooping behind her. Bucky catches a glimpse of her shoe. She turns and smiles at the audience, fashionable hat perfectly in place, while Stark opens a box and takes out a rifle. “My newest innovation. A breech loading rifle fit for military use, both more accurate and faster to load and fire.”

He hands it to Natalia and she holds it patiently while he points at different parts of the rifle. “The breech opens, in the top of the barrel, if you rotate the trigger guard. Tipping the barrel forward slightly will make the ball drop into the cavity but the rifling will stop it there. The closing screw will sweep away excess gunpowder which is then deposited into the flash pan. Close the frizzen and pull back the hammer to fire.”

Bucky is not exactly paying attention. The hat is obscuring Natalia's face but her eyes are sparkling underneath. He can see her better when Stark takes a step back. “I hope to introduce this rifle for regular use in the Army- but we will talk about that later. Now, Miss Romanoff kindly agreed to a demonstration. Miss Romanoff, before we begin- you are not a trained soldier, are you?”

Natalia's eyes sparkle with amusement. “No, Mister Stark, I am not.”

“You're not even complaining about his showmanship as you usually do,” Sam murmurs. Bucky is not paying attention.

“But you have shot a rifle before?” Stark inquiries.

“Oh, yes,” Natasha replies, as if surprised. “A few times.”

Bucky gets the distinct feeling she is lying. Downplaying at least. “Excellent,” Stark comments, stepping back even further. On the right, a straw target is being placed about 200 metres away. That's a lot for an untrained shooter. “Now, how often do you think you can load and fire this rifle within a minute, Miss Romanoff?”

Natalia smirks playfully. Bucky's stomach sinks. “Let's find out, Mister Stark, shall we?”

“Excellent,” Stark repeats, presenting a box with cartridges next to her on the table, then stepping all the way back to the railing. Natalia raises the rifle and aims, though it is not charged yet. Oh God, her posture- she clearly knows how to do this. Bucky flushes.

She lowers the rifle and grabs a cartridge with her brown leather gloves. “Ready?” asks Stark, then starts counting down with a watch in his hand when she nods.

At zero, she tilts the barrel forward, fits the ball cartridge in with some difficulty, pours some gunpowder on it from a little purse on the table. It's not even ten seconds until she closes the screw, knocks the barrel upwards and Bucky holds his breath while she aims, seems like it takes forever, then  _ pang  _ and she hits the outer ring of the straw target. Oh God, with that level of speed and accuracy, she would already get accepted into the Army. Other than that she is a woman, of course, and doesn't even need to- Oh God, he's so badly in love.

He can't even get mad about all the delicate ladies shrieking because he is all focused on Natalia, Natalia is all focused on getting the next cartridge in already, and all the mean whispers in the world couldn't mean less. She truly is untouchable, above everything in this disdainful world, above all the gossip and the mean spirits, and she  _ does what she wants. _ She fires again, this time a little closer to the centre.

“Thirty seconds,” Stark announces while she is fiddling with the third cartridge but it doesn't seem to matter to her at all, she moves calmly, without hurry, she has nothing to prove to anyone. Powder, closing screw, frizzen, hammer pulled back and she hits the outer ridge of the straw target again.

There's a little smirk on her lips, like she's going to do better this time, like she knows she is going to do better, and of course she doesn't look even remotely his way but he feels like he is the only one who sees and understands that smirk, like it is their secret. Loading, powdering, closing. Stark starts counting down from fifteen. This is her last shot and she knows, taking all the time in the world to aim, everyone holds their breath, staring alternatively between her and the straw target, and when she fires, she damn near hits the centre.

Somebody in the audience faints, he thinks, though not him, and it's not just whispers and murmurs, the crowd goes entirely mad. People are screaming unintelligible stuff, pumping their fists in the air, faces pale, and nobody, probably not even themselves, knows whether they are appalled or excited. Natalia calmly places the rifle back in its box, slipping her gloves off and shaking the gunpowder off them.

“Four times,” Stark is shouting. “Four times!”

Natalia turns back to the crowd that suddenly falls silent and she curtsies, bowing her neck elegantly, and somehow that seems to appease them. She pulls out a fan and leaves the podium.

 

Stark keeps talking after that but Bucky really couldn't care less. His eyes follow Natalia who is making her way through the crowd, everyone stepping out of her way immediately, and he is really not sure whether they love her or hate her or both. He can only speak for himself. Mrs. Stark comes on the podium to add a few words, which he also doesn't care about. God, he used to have a crush on her as well, years ago, and he never even spoke to her because she was already so far out of his reach. Well, about that…

Natalia stops before Sharon for a second, Sharon who is tightly clutching onto Steve's arm. Bucky almost immediately slips away, ignoring Sam who's groaning behind him. Sharon says a few cautious words, Steve nodding along. Natasha bows her head and walks away. Sharon breathes deeply, then pushes Steve away and hurries after Natalia. When Bucky makes it through the crowd, it's only Steve standing there in minor confusion. “Oh, Buck, it's you. Haven't seen you since the wedding.”

“What did she want?” Bucky asks.

Steve snorts. “Just asked Sharon for her impressions. Really, that's the only thing you care about?”

Sharon and Natalia are discussing intensely, out of his hearing range. Bucky nervously steps from one foot on the other. “No, I- of course not. How have you been? How was it?”

Steve grows intensely pink. “Oh gosh, that question is way worse.”

 

“Natasha!” Sharon calls, wanting to catch her before she reaches the scary bear-like coachman. Natasha stops and turns around. Sharon breathes deeply and slows down, walking the last few steps. “Why did you do that? All of that?”

Natasha's brows furrow. Sharon suddenly feels a lot smaller. “What do you mean?”

“That was just-” Sharon groans inwardly. “Well, plenty of people are going to say that was very inappropriate.”

“I don't care what plenty of people are saying,” Natasha returns coldly.

“All right, but did you have to wave it in their faces like that?” Sharon adds. “For what good? What did you get out of it?”

“I wanted to,” Natasha replies flatly.

“Was that really worth it?” Sharon asks. “If you wanted to shoot, you could have done it quietly. No one would have cared. It wouldn't have been a- a scandal like that.”

“Again, Sharon, I don't care what people are saying,” Natasha repeats, turning on her heel. “If you would excuse me.”

“They're saying you did it with Stark,” Sharon blurts out.

Natasha turns back again. “Excuse me?”

Sharon sighs but she is also stubborn in the face of such indifference. “They- Plenty of people are saying you had- relations with Stark. And that's why he chose you to do the presentation.”

“I did no such thing,” Natasha replies. “That's ridiculous.”

“I know,” Sharon hurries to say. “But that's what people are saying. And I am not sure you know what that- what that means for your reputation.”

“Well, thank you for telling me,” Natasha says calmly. “I appreciate the honesty. But don't worry, it's just gossip. It will be gone in a week or so. My reputation will be just fine.”

“If you are so certain,” Sharon says uncertainly. “Other than that, I- you shot beautifully. I almost envied you.”

Natasha smiles. “Thank you, Sharon. I will see you soon.” With that, she finally turns and gets into her coach.

 

“No, I- stop asking me that,” Steve groans. “Oh, my dear darling, there you are.”

Sharon links her arm with Steve again so she can feel more steady, both on this trampled lawn and with the image of Natasha's cold indifference in her mind. “Oh, hello, Bucky. What did you think of the presentation?”

“I need to go talk to Stark,” Steve interrupts. “Would you mind bringing her home, Bucky? I'll come back before dinner, my love.”

“Of course,” Bucky agrees. “Should we wait for Sam and take his coach?”

“Not necessary, I would prefer to walk,” Sharon says. “It's only about two miles.”

Steve smiles and squeezes her arm before disappearing into the crowd. Bucky waits until he is out of earshot. “So… How was it?”

Sharon blushes furiously. “Bucky! You can't ask that. That's highly inappropriate.”

Bucky grins, holding an arm out to her and starting to walk. “Why? I asked Steve the same thing.”

“Oh gosh,” Sharon mutters, pulling out a fan. “Wait, what did he say?”

“Oh, you know, mumbled for five solid minutes,” Bucky replies. “With a very red face. As he does.”

Sharon snorts. “But he didn't- complain or anything?”

“Are you crazy?” Bucky asks bluntly. “Of course not. But if you want to, I'm listening.”

Sharon slams her elbow between his ribs. “Natasha is right, you can be a real nuisance.”

“Ouch,” Bucky mutters, more about her words than the elbow. “Wait, she said that? Why? What did I do?”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “Come on. She called you an idiot, you said as much.”

“Yeah, but-” Several times. Okay, he should let that rest. “What did you talk to her about?”

Sharon sighs. “You don't want to know. I just- I worry about her. I don't think she is happy.”

“She seemed fine to me,” Bucky says. “When we last spoke. It has been a while.”

“She's different when she's alone,” Sharon murmurs. “I think she could use a friend. I should write her soon. As soon as I get home.”

“How's Steve's house, by the way?” Bucky asks. “I hope you changed the curtains.”

Sharon snorts. “Oh hell yeah, I'm going to. I don't care what he says about saving money, those are  _ not _ acceptable.”

“Good to finally see someone with common sense moving into that house,” Bucky remarks with amusement. “It's about time.”

Sharon smiles. “So, what did you think of the presentation?”

“I think it was great,” Bucky replies. “Usually, Stark is more annoying.”

Sharon sighs. “I agree with that. It's just- everyone was saying it was very inappropriate.”

“I don't give a rat's ass what everyone is saying,” Bucky replies bluntly. “And I don't think she does either.”

Sharon snorts. “I would assume her family does, though.”

“Her family isn't here,” Bucky states simply.

“Her uncle is,” Sharon reminds him. “And her aunt. Well, I suppose it's not as inappropriate as you asking me about our wedding night.”

Bucky grins. “Look, if you want to tell me something, you can totally do that.”

Sharon snorts. “In your dreams maybe.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Are you okay?” Sharon asks. “I haven't seen you out in a while.”

Natasha grimaces, striking a match and igniting the gas in the pipe. “Well, my aunt thought it best I stay home for a bit. After the incident.”

“I told you they wouldn't like it,” Sharon says, then almost bites on her tongue. “But that is all?”

“Yes, yes, stay at home, read a few books, pray before bedtime,” Natasha replies. “I am happy you are here,  _ je commençais à m'ennuyer. _ ”

“I'm glad you invited me,” Sharon returns. “Do you regret it? Stark's presentation?”

Natasha fills a smaller container with tea leaves. “I don't know. I really wanted to do it but in hindsight, I fail to see the point.”

“It was awesome, though,” Sharon remarks. “If I may say that.”

Natasha doesn't smile. Part of the reason Sharon worries about her. “You may. This is  _ zavarka,  _ tea concentrate. We will dilute it with boiled water.”

“Your samovar is beautiful,” Sharon compliments. “Really. A work of art.”

Natasha stares at the colorful enamel, again failing to smile. Sharon sighs, folding her hands in her lap. “Is something bothering you, if I may ask?”

Natasha looks up, unsettled. “Oh, I'm sorry. I trailed off again, didn't I?”

“It's okay, no worries,” Sharon assures her. “Just come sit with me and tell me what's on your mind.”

Natasha looks the samovar up and down but doesn't find anything to keep her from joining Sharon. She sits down heavily. “I don't know. I have been in a bad mood recently.”

“I noticed,” Sharon remarks, leaning forward. “Is it something with your family?”

Natasha grimaces. “I don't know. Well, my uncle's health is improving and my aunt is pushing for all of us to leave before the end of the year. She hates it here.”

“I thought you didn't want to travel during winter,” Sharon reminds her.

“Yes.” Natasha shakes her head. “I don't. Well, I don't have a say in the matter. We'll have to see.”

“It would be very sad if you already had to leave,” Sharon says. “Maybe your aunt would like it better here if she engaged more with the community. You should come to church sometime, or maybe give a ball.”

“My aunt wouldn't set foot in a Protestant church,” Natasha replies. “I might ask her about the ball, even though I can't imagine her agreeing. But you're right, it would be nice. I have been feeling… lonely.”

“You can write me at any time,” Sharon encourages. “Our little house will seem disappointing to you but you are always welcome.”

Natasha smiles for the first time. “Sharon, you just got married. You should be spending time with your husband.”

Sharon snorts. “Oh, we are going to be married for a long time, I can spend time with him all my life. You, however, are going to be gone sooner or later.”

Natasha sighs. “If you are sure about that… I would be delighted. Oh, I don't know. I've been- I've been meaning to write- Mister Barnes, but I don't think it would be a good idea. After the presentation.”

“Oh, he loved it,” Sharon interrupts. “But you don't mean that, do you?”

Natasha snorts. “No, I don't. It is just that I- my aunt is paying a lot of attention right now and I wouldn't want her to find out. That would be… severe.”

“I can invite him,” Sharon suggests. “To Steve's house, our house. And you could come, too. Visit me while Bucky is visiting Steve.”

Natasha looks taken aback. “Would you- could you do that? No, that's not a good idea.”

“That's for you to decide, obviously,” Sharon offers. “But no one would know. For God's sake, we haven't even found servants yet.”

“But how do you- no, it doesn't matter.” Natasha shakes her head. “I don't know. I really don't know.”

Sharon smiles and leans forward. “Do you want to?”

Natasha looks unsettled again. “Sharon, that is not such a simple question that could be answered with yes or no.”

Sharon leans back. “Well, I have plenty of time.”

Natasha suddenly jumps up. “Oh, the samovar! Excuse me.”

Sharon sighs inwardly. Natasha goes to extinguish the fire and place the smaller container on top of the samovar so that the steam heats it. “Excuse me. We will still need to wait until the zavarka finishes brewing.”

“No problem,” Sharon says. “As I said, I have plenty of time.”

“I shouldn't be keeping you from your husband like this,” Natasha scolds herself, sitting down again. “I hope he can forgive me.”

“Steve is at the regiment anyway,” Sharon assures her. “Don't worry about that.”

Natasha sighs. “Well, we could- would you like to read something? I can call for books to be brought.”

Something about her behaviour displeases Sharon. “No, no, we can do that later. I want to know how you feel about Bucky.”

Natasha looks miserable, underneath the mask. Sharon pities her. It's not supposed to feel this way. “It really is- it really is an intractable situation.”

“I'm sorry,” Sharon says. “We don't have to talk about it if you don't want.”

Natasha sighs and looks out of the window. “I miss my brothers. My father. Everyone here is- it is all superficial. My aunt is terrible. Pardon me, I shouldn't speak ill of her.”

“It's okay,” Sharon assuages. “You must feel lonely indeed. I hope my presence helps.”

“I don't know my way out of this,” Natasha whispers. “This state of mind. This pit of- feeling. I know how to act like it doesn't exist, like it isn't clawing at me whenever- I'm sorry. You just married, you must be so happy. I don't want to drag you down.”

“Since when have you been feeling so blue?” Sharon asks.

“Since… oh, since your wedding,” Natasha replies. “I don't know. I guess I thought the presentation would help but it only made it worse.”

“If it made you more lonely, it certainly did,” Sharon agrees, taking Natasha's hands. “I can stay a few days if you want, if your uncle allows it. Or you can come over and see Bucky. But you need to tell me what you think will help you.”

“I don't want to be a burden,” Natasha murmurs, suppressing a yawn. “I'm sorry. I'm not sleeping well at the moment.”

“You don't need to apologize,” Sharon insists. “I want to help. Tell me how I can help you.”

Natasha's eyes dart around carefully. “Do you think- Bucky wants to see me?”

Sharon snorts. “Are you joking? He is in love with you. I've never seen him so badly in love- and he's fancied quite a number of women over the years. My sister, among others. Of course he wants to see you.”

“But is he really in love with- me?” Natasha asks hesitantly. “Or is he in love with what he thinks I am, the- the wealth and the status and all of that? Maybe he thinks I'm something I'm not. I don't know if he really knows me.”

“I don't know either,” Sharon admits. “But trust me, he would be a lot happier if you were less wealthy and noble and also not about to marry a Duke. You shouldn't worry about that.”

Natasha sighs. “I don't know. I really don't know. Could you stay a little? We could drink tea and read. If you want.”

“I would be delighted.” Sharon smiles and lets go of her hands. “However long you want me to stay. Your mansion is beautiful, by the way. I caught sight of the garden on my way here.”

“Oh, sure, we can go outside and walk a little.” Natasha jumps up again. Most of the grace is gone today. “But first, we should drink tea. Could you give me your cup?”

 

Sharon ends up staying the night, sending a note to Steve so he doesn't worry. They drink the tea from the samovar, they read almost half of the  _ Iliad  _ in Greek even though Sharon doesn't know a word and Natasha has to translate it as she goes, they read in the candlelight until Natasha's eyes are red and she almost falls asleep on the pages. Sharon stumbles to the prepared guest room and drops onto the bed.

In the morning, they take a walk in the garden before breakfast. Natasha seems more collected today, her hair neatly tucked under a purple bonnet. Her eyes are still red from reading in the candlelight. “I don't think I should go.”

Sharon, who has been distracted by the beautiful roses, turns her head. “Sorry?”

“I don't think I should go and meet Mister Barnes in your house,” Natasha explains calmly. “That would be highly improper.”

Can't argue with that. Sharon links her arms behind her back, grabbing onto her left elbow. “Yes. It would.”

“But thank you for the offer.” Natasha turns back to the house and smiles. “I think they are heating up the samovar now.”

Sharon's stomach is churning. “I'm going to try it a little stronger today. Will your uncle and aunt join us for breakfast?”

“I don't know,” Natasha replies. “We'll have to see. It depends on how my uncle is feeling. I usually don't have visitors, so they might stay away for that reason.”

“Oh, I don't want to intrude,” Sharon remarks hastily. “Do you feel better today? Did you sleep well?”

“I don't know what was going on with me yesterday,” Natasha says. “Please forget everything I said, I'm begging you. Yes, I slept very well and I feel completely different.”

“Not lonely anymore?” Sharon probes.

Natasha smiles and Sharon wonders for the first time whether it's real or a mask. “Yes, don't worry. I'm so glad you came over. Do you want to see the fountain? I'm afraid it's already turned off for the approaching winter.”

“Yes, please.” Sharon follows Natasha through the splendid garden. “But you are right, the air is very crisp this morning.”

“I miss snow,” Natasha announces. “We had so little last year. Well, I assume one can't hope for more in England.”

“What are you talking about, we had snow for weeks last year,” Sharon asks with amusement. “But you are right, the short time is truly magical. Unlike all the fog in autumn.”

“I like the fog,” Natasha remarks, sauntering with her arms crossed behind her back. “It makes the world so small. You can hide in it.”

“I find it scary,” Sharon replies. “Peggy used to tell me stories about the creatures that live in the fog. I don't want to think about it, even today.”

“My brothers tried to scare me with stories about  _ Ded moroz _ ,” Natasha says. “Grandfather Frost. They said he comes for girls who don't behave and snatches them out of their beds. I always found that more appealing than scary.”

“I've never heard of him,” Sharon says.

“He is the spirit of winter,” Natasha muses. “Sometimes. Sometimes, he is a wise old man. He can freeze people and whole landscapes, even armies. The Church, however, sees him as a demon.”

“That does sound scary,” Sharon remarks. “And cold.”

Natasha laughs. “Certainly. Do you want to go back in?”

“Yes, yes,” Sharon agrees. “I think some tea would help after that story.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Why did your father take you to the bear hunt?” Sharon asks, fiddling with the tablecloth.

“Sharon,” Natasha scolds. “You just want to distract from the fact that you forgot all the accusative endings.”

Sharon shrugs like a child. “Why, though? You said you have to sit around and wait for hours without moving. That's not really a child's strong suit.”

Natasha gives up and closes the book. “I was good at it, though. I could always be very quiet. I sat around and observed my brothers vying for my parents’ attention and I never felt the need to do the same. I think I am my father's favourite child. My brothers were very disappointed and jealous when he took me hunting instead of them.”

“What about your mother?” Sharon asks, tucking her knees against her chest.

“My mother always thought I should be different,” Natasha tells her. “She is very ambitious. She made sure I got such an excellent education, while my father wanted to explore what I enjoyed. In fact, he was very skeptical about my engagement to Alexei Shostakov.”

“Really?” Sharons probes, intrigued. “He had objections to you marrying a  _ duke _ ?”

Natasha smiles. “Just think of your mother. I am also the youngest child. My mother is not affected by that as much but my father thinks it is much too early and I should stay with the family longer.”

“What did your mother say when you got betrothed?”

Natasha shrugs. “She told me she had never been so proud of me. I think if I blew it, somehow, she would strangle me with her own hands.”

“That's rough,” Sharon remarks. “Really rough. My mom still sends me letters every other day. Even though it's such a short walk.”

“She will get used to it,” Natasha assures her with a smile. “What about your father?”

“He always encourages me,” Sharon says. “About marrying Steve, but also about pursuing hunting and such. The only thing that he can't stand are, as he says,  _ silly geese _ .”

“I think plenty of fathers are overwhelmed with their daughters’ emotions,” Natasha suggests.

“Well, I had relatively little of that,” Sharon concedes. “But, I don't know if you know this, but Peggy used to… well, Bucky used to have a crush on her, over two years ago, when we were all very young, but Peggy didn't really like him, she always claimed that he was immature or something. And Peggy, well, Peggy liked Steve a lot. But Steve… well, Steve had taken a certain interest in me at that point, if I can say that. It wasn't easy for her, of course, and my father didn't want to have to deal with any of it. I think he really reproached her for that. But it was only a few months of drama and then she met her now husband and moved on and Bucky also moved on. And Steve and me, well, that stayed.”

“I bet your father will always hold that in your favour,” Natasha remarks with amusement. “That you kept out of the youthful troubles.”

“I guess I was just lucky,” Sharon replies. “If I had been in her stead, I also wouldn't have taken it lightly. But everything went right for me, so that's that. What about your brothers, are they married?”

“The oldest one is,” Natasha says. “His wife Olga is lovely. The other two are still looking for the right match. Men always marry later and, well, my mother has high standards.”

The door opens. Steve coming home. “But you didn't take fancy to anyone that you shouldn't have? Someone your mother would disapprove of?”

“No, no, I was a very well-behaved daughter,” Natasha assures her. “My brothers had unfortunate stories but well, in their case, it doesn't really matter.”

Sharon snorts. “That's true. I mean, if a girl fell in love with a different man every summer, as Bucky does, that would be deadly serious.”

Natasha looks amused. “Really? So I am just this year's fashion?”

“I think he is more serious about you,” Sharon admits. “And if he's not, well, you are set to marry next year, you can't really demand his undying devotion.”

“Honey, I'm home,” Steve's voice calls.

“Hello Sharon!”

Natasha freezes. Sharon almost curses. “I didn't know he would- I didn't tell him you would come over- I'm sorry. I'll just-”

The door opens just as she gets up. Natasha still looks very uncomfortable. Steve peeks in. “I hope that's- oh, Miss Romanoff.”

“Captain Rogers,” Natasha replies tensely.

Bucky, behind Steve, is a bit pale. Sharon curses inwardly. “Look, Natasha stopped by, I didn't know you would bring Bucky-”

“Don't worry, I'll just come over tomorrow,” Bucky interrupts.

“-I didn't even make dinner yet,” Sharon finishes.

“It's okay,” Natasha throws in. “I should be home for dinner anyways.”

“Are you sure?” Bucky asks uncomfortably. “I can just leave.”

“Yes, I'm sure,” Natasha replies. “I wasn't going to stay this long anyways.”

“I'll go get changed,” Steve announces, walking up the stairs.

“You really don't have to go,” Sharon insists. “I'll make a stew or something. It's going to be enough for all of us.”

“It's fine, really,” Natasha repeats, putting the Greek book in her purse. “You can go into the kitchen, you don't need to see me out. I'll come back for tea another time.”

“I'll try to remember the accusative endings by then,” Sharon jokes, hugging and kissing her. “All right. It was good to see you.”

“Good to see you too,” Natasha replies warmly. 

Sharon disappears into the kitchen, Natasha gets up and Bucky is still standing awkwardly in the hall. “I really didn't know you would be here. I didn't mean to drop in on you like that.”

“Don't worry about it,” Natasha replies, wrapping a scarf around her neck. “Just a coincidence.”

Bucky holds her coat out for her and she slips in. Her hair smells nice. She turns, studying him. “Well, now that I have you here… Would you mind another sword fighting lesson? Tomorrow, maybe, at the Wilsons’ stables?”

“Sam won't be there,” he states. Sam will leave town tomorrow, for some Circus project with Barton.

She shrugs minimally. “Fine by me. I'll bring Ivan, as always.”

“Oh, yes,” Bucky remarks sarcastically. “I already missed him.”

Natasha smiles, buttoning up her coat. “Are you mad I got to shoot Stark's rifle first?”

“I think it's going to be introduced at the regiment soon,” Bucky replies. “But you'd have to ask Steve about that.”

“I think it's a really good rifle,” Natasha says. “I'm curious how long it will take you to be able to fire four shots within a minute.”

Bucky snorts. “I bet I could do five.”

“You haven't even held it in your hands yet,” Natasha reminds him, putting on a bonnet. “What makes you so sure?”

Bucky shrugs. “I've been training with rifles for years. Though Sharon did tell me about your bear hunt.”

Natasha snorts, slipping on her gloves. “And I thought she could keep a secret.”

“That's definitely not the most private thing you ever told her,” he returns.

“True,” she admits, picking up her purse. “Well, see you tomorrow then. Two o'clock? Then it's still bright outside for a few hours.”

“Two o'clock,” he confirms, and then she slips out into the fog.

 

“Do you think it's going to rain?”

Bucky looks up briefly. She doesn't stab him, even though she could. “Nah. Just sky fog.”

“You do know that fog is water,” she remarks. “And rain clouds are also water.”

“How interesting,” he returns sarcastically, angling the sword against hers. “Tell me more.”

She snorts. “Are you even interested in anything? Come on, tell me three things you care about.”

“Well, sword fighting,” he starts. “Guns. Do people count?”

“Yes,” she replies tensely.

“Then Steve,” he finishes, to her relief. “That's three things. Now you.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “No way.”

“Oh, so you are the one who doesn't actually care about anything,” he remarks with amusement. “And you just mask it by pretending to care about everything.”

“Fine, three things,” she interrupts. “My family. Sharon. And being left alone.”

“That's not a  _ thing _ ,” he complains.

“Oh, but sky fog is?” she deadpans.

He can't help but grin. And all this time they are bantering, they are also trying to stab each other. “You know, I really like doing this with you. Then again, according to Sharon, you think I can be a real nuisance, so maybe you don't.”

She snorts. “You idiot. Don't take everything so serious. As the Germans say, you shouldn't weigh every word with gold.”

“Gold? Let's not get unrealistic,” Bucky retorts. “You saw Steve's house. And he is a Captain.”

She shakes her head. “You really would be happier if I had less money, wouldn't you?”

“I think you would have to have a hell of a lot less money until it made a difference to me,” Bucky replies. “So, no.”

“I'm not changing for you,” she announces. “Nothing at all.”

“Good,” he remarks. “I wouldn't want the responsibility of ruining your perfect life.”

“I really can't tell if you're being sarcastic,” she remarks. “Or if you mean it.”

“Oh, I mean it,” he assures her. “As I said, I wish you no harm. In any way.”

She sighs. “I might have to depart before the end of the year. I hope it doesn't happen, but there's a possibility.”

His chest clenches. “You will be missed.”

“Don't talk about me like I'm dead,” she scolds.

He shrugs. “You will be, though. Dead to us. Once you cross the channel, you will never come back and I will never see you again.”

“But my life will continue anyway,” Natasha reminds him. “Just not here.”

A drop hits Bucky's cheek. “For me, there's really no difference. Wait, do you- do you feel it too?”

Natasha puts away her sword and extends a hand, taking the glove off. “I didn't, underneath the hat- oh, yes. Yes.”

Bucky groans, putting his sword away as well. “Oh, great. Just what we needed. Come on, let's go-”

The rain intensifies from a small dripple to a solid pouring. Thunder. Ohoh. “The stables are closest.”

He runs over to the wooden building where the horses look disconcerted about the thunder, Natasha on his heels, holding onto her hat. He makes it to the gate mostly dry. Natasha bumps into him when he suddenly stops, giggling, and he catches her at her upper arms reflexively. She doesn't stumble, though, just snorts and blows a strand of hair out of her face. “Well, so much on your  _ sky fog. _ ”

She's so close, almost like they're dancing, and she smells good, even through all the hay and horses, and he doesn't want to think about a witty reply, he just stands there and holds her arms and smiles down at her like an idiot, she looks up at him through her lashes, she's really short, he sometimes forgets that. Lightning, then another thunder. A horse starts whickering. Natasha smiles up at him and she is warm, through her coat, and so damn beautiful, too, it almost makes his heart explode, he reaches out with his right hand and caresses her soft, smooth cheek and she smiles at him and-

And Ivan the bear comes barging in, as displeased as ever, and they break apart hastily, Natasha starts straightening out her coat and Bucky looks absolutely everywhere that's not her, clutching his right hand to his chest. He'll never forget the feeling of her skin under his fingers. Natasha wraps her arms around herself, walking a few steps. Ivan the bear just stands there like a menace, without saying anything. The rain is pouring. Another lightning.

Natasha starts wandering through the stable, looking at a few nervous horses. Ivan the bear follows her with his eyes, not for a second paying attention to Bucky. It's like he isn't even here. Natasha turns and starts walking back. “It's not going to stop soon, is it?”

“Doesn't look like it,” Bucky confirms, watching the water run down from the stable roof.

“Мне холодно,” she mutters, and Bucky almost asks her to repeat that but Ivan the bear wraps his huge arms around her. She is so small. She leans her head against his chest, eyes closed, smiling contentedly. She really is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

The rain continues as they stand and wait in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Мне холодно: I'm cold


	13. Chapter 13

Natasha does convince her aunt and uncle to give a ball, for whatever reason, and she ends up inviting so many people it's almost like one of Stark's balls. Nobody talks about anything else for two whole weeks before the event. Sharon can't decide what to wear, claiming that this is so much more difficult than finding a dress for her wedding.

Bucky has it easier, he always goes to these kinds of things in his uniform. Steve makes sure both his and Bucky's are squeaky clean and straight, boots polished and all. It's the event of the season, if not the whole year.

By now, everyone has forgotten about the oh so appalling presentation at Stark's. There's just so much new gossip. Barton is supposed to bring his circus here for the winter. Stark is reportedly working on a machine to write, even though that doesn't make sense to anyone. And did you see the Romanoff's mansion, because my sister drove by yesterday, and the garden is one of the most beautiful in the country, rivalled only by the Asgard estate-

Bucky doesn't really care. He can't think of anything but Natalia most of the time. She doesn't write him again but he didn't expect her to either, she is completely wrapped up in the preparations. Even if she wasn't, she only writes when she wants something. He often sees her at night when he closes his eyes, cheek resting against his fingertips, smiling up at him. In Ivan's arms, watching the rain fall. He wishes he could wrap his arms around her and keep her warm.

He makes the decision to ask her for a dance this time. No matter what she says, as the host, she will have to dance. He's not even nervous about it until he sees the mansion, lit up as if on fire, just all the candles must be so expensive, and suddenly his palms get sweaty and he is about to faint. “I know,” Sharon murmurs. “And that is just for the temporary stay here.”

Bucky feels like he is standing in front of a palace. Steve tugs Sharon along to get into the line up to the entrance. It takes Bucky a few moments to notice and follow them. “It's really beautiful indeed,” Steve comments. “Look at the chiseled columns. Very commanding.”

“Steve, my dear, I have been here before,” Sharon reminds him. “But yes, it still knocks the wind out of me.”

“I'm sorry.” Steve gazes at her. “Did I tell you you look absolutely lovely tonight?”

“I spent over five hours just getting ready,” Sharon replies. “I would hope so.”

Steve snorts. “Buck. Say something.”

“What?” Bucky asks, finally tearing his eyes away from the building. “I already told her she looks great. I don't need to compliment your wife the whole time.”

Sharon snorts. “You're both terrible. Have you heard anything from Sam?”

“No, nothing,” Steve replies. “Maybe he will come later.”

“Maybe he is already in there,” Bucky suggests. “In that case, we are never ever going to find him.”

“I didn't think we would have to wait outside,” Sharon complains, rubbing her arms. “It's cold.”

Bucky has flashbacks to Natasha in the stable. He gets it all the time. “Come here,” Steve offers, opening his arms. “They are moving fairly quickly, it'll only be a couple of minutes.”

Sharon smiles up at him while he pulls her against him. Bucky looks discreetly away, again studying the mansion. He wonders where her room is. It probably has over a dozen windows.

“Bucky! Bucky.”

He turns to Steve but Steve is not there anymore, he and Sharon moved forward and he missed it. Right. He catches up with them. Steve snorts. “You're so distracted. What's going on?”

Sharon pokes him between the ribs. “Come on. You know what's going on. He's in love.”

Bucky doesn't even know whether to deny it. Steve looks legitimately horrified. “That's… just… really bad.”

Sharon snorts, pulling him a few steps forward again. They can already see through the open door. “Could be worse.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” Steve says.

Bucky sighs. “Just let it be, Steve. Nothing you could say would change anything.”

“That just makes it worse,” Steve returns. “You know I don't do this out of spite or jealousy, right? But I care about you and you're really digging yourself into a deep hole here.”

“I know, I know,” Bucky interrupts. “But I just can't change it, okay? So let's stop talking about it.”

Sharon slips out of Steve's arms. “Oh, look, it's Aunt Maria! I'll go join her if you don't mind. I'll see you later.”

“Sure,” Steve replies, waving while she makes her way through the crowd. “Just one thing, Buck. You know you could lose your position in the regiment over this, right?”

A shudder runs down his back. The regiment is all he has ever known, all he has. He grew up in the regiment. His only family. “I- I guess I do.”

“And it's infinitely worse for her,” Steve continues. “Just infinitely worse. So, whatever you do, whatever, you better do it goddamn discreetly. This is not one of the situations where you should stand up for what you believe. Everything you do will hurt not only you but also her. Do you understand that?”

“I don't want to hurt her,” Bucky mutters. “Yes. I understand.”

“Then don't do it.” Steve sighs. “And if you have to, do it so that no one will know. I mean, you can trust Sharon and me and Sam, of course, but beyond that, you might as well shoot yourself. That would save her a lot of pain.”

“I get it,” Bucky hurries to say. “Now, for the love of God, please shut up. We're almost at the door.”

 

Natasha's aunt is the sort of woman that would scare the sinfulness out of the worst criminal. She has sharp, high cheekbones, slightly hollow cheeks and above that an icy blue gaze, kind of like Natasha's but without any of the softness and the sparkle. They are standing at the entrance, Natasha introducing everyone. Her aunt is tall and staunchly upright while her uncle is a little fat and pale. Bucky and Steve wait patiently while Natasha smiles and talks to two couples they don't know. Sharon already got in and is now looking around for people she knows. The couples smile and pass into the big hall. Bucky suddenly doesn't want to step forward anymore. Steve does anyway. Natasha's face lights up. “Oh, good evening. This is Captain Steven Rogers. And Sergeant James Barnes. Please meet my aunt and uncle.”

Her uncle doesn't look interested at all, looking around the room instead. Her aunt is extending her hand slightly piqued. Steve with the good manners kisses it. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Romanova.”

“Demidova,” Natasha corrects quietly.

“Excuse me,” Steve adds quickly. “Mrs. Demidova.”

Mrs. Demidova looks at him, then at Bucky, turning up her nose at them. “Oh, Natalie, c'est tellement généreux de ta part d'inviter les milieux défavorisés.”

“Tatie!” Natasha hisses. “Ne dites pas ça!”

“Mesdames,” Steve interrupts. “Monsieur. Veuillez nous excuser, il y a des gens qui attendent.”

The aunt doesn't even look ashamed because he understood her, just appalled. How dare he speak French? That is not for people like him. “Thank you for coming,” Natasha says quickly. “Please go in.”

Her uncle nods absentmindedly, having missed all of the drama. Steve and Bucky make way for the people behind them quickly, handing their coats to a servant. “What did she say about us?” Bucky hisses.

Steve snorts, smiling politely at the servant. “Well, she- look, she said it was very generous from Natasha to invite the, well, the  _ lower classes. _ ”

“Is she kidding,” Bucky hisses. “You’re a Captain! That's not a  _ lower class _ .”

“Yes, but as you can see, she is filthy rich, so she gets to say things like that,” Steve explains patiently. “I don't like it either. But let's not make a scene right now, Sharon would kill us.”

Bucky sighs while Steve goes looking for Sharon immediately. Not being with her must be horrible for him. “I should have guessed, though, that her aunt doesn't have the same last name,” Steve mutters. “It's her aunt after all.”

“Just goes to show you how little anyone knows about them,” Bucky says. “Frankly, it is slightly objectionable to keep out of society to that degree. Oh, it all just comes back to the money, doesn't it.”

Sharon is talking with her godfather right now, Fury. Steve joins them without hesitation. Sharon's face lights up when she sees them. Fury has a little, private smirk at his goddaughter's obvious happiness. “Oh, there you are! And I was already worried she wouldn't let you in.”

“Yeah, she didn't want to,” Bucky says. “She made that very clear. And mind you, Steve over here was very polite.”

“And you just didn't do anything,” Steve mutters, offering his arm to Sharon.

“Look, if you already do it wrong, I'm just going to make it worse,” Bucky returns.

“I hate to say this,” Sharon starts reluctantly. “But she seems like a horrible person.”

Fury snorts into his wine. “Oh. Yes.”

“What?” Sharon asks, staggered. “Please tell me more.”

“No, no,” Fury replies. “That's my business, after all.”

“I'll ask Aunt Maria,” Sharon threatens. “Just tell me. Pretty please.”

“Was she mean to you?” Steve asks. “I swear to God, I'll go and complain. Right now.”

Sharon grabs onto his arm and doesn't let go. “Don't you dare. It's okay. She looked me over like a peasant at first but when Natasha explained who I was, she seemed actually quite delighted. I mentioned that Natasha was teaching me Ancient Greek and she was quite encouraging.”

“Oh, Steve,” Bucky remarks. “You should have mentioned that your wife is fabulous, that might have helped.”

Steve snorts. “That shouldn’t matter. You can’t just judge people you don’t know.”

“Everyone does, though,” Sharon argues. “What did she do to you?”

“She just called us poor and made it clear we should be grateful that we're even allowed here,” Bucky replies. “In French, on top of that.”

Sharon snorts. “Clearly the most offensive part to you.”

“She didn't even care that I understood,” Steve complains. “She just wanted to show off.”

“What about Sam, by the way?” Sharon asks. “Do you know if he's going to come, Nick?”

“He should be here at any moment,” Fury replies. “If you'll excuse me.”

Sharon waves him off, then sighs. “I just feel bad for Natasha. She looked so uncomfortable.”

“It's hard when your aunt is a bitch,” Bucky says. “Sorry.”

Steve sighs but doesn't say anything. Sharon looks amused. “I wouldn't say it but it's true.”

“Oh, look, there's Sam,” Steve remarks. Sam is just walking in with his uncle.

Sharon snorts. “He couldn't just have said that he is getting him.”

“You know Fury never tells anyone anything,” Steve reminds her, waving. “You shouldn't be surprised.”

Sam greets a few people, then joins them. “Phew. The dragon let me in.”

“We were just talking about that,” Sharon replies with amusement. “That bad?”

“She looked at me like I had three heads,” Sam complains. “She asked if I lived in a  _ house _ . I almost told her that slavery has been illegal in England since at least 1772. Luckily, Fury came in then.”

“I just said she was a bitch,” Bucky repeats. “Again, sorry, Sharon.”

Sam snorts. “Well, I really don't want to spread out my whole family history. I'm just going to avoid her tonight.”

“Her uncle didn't care at all,” Steve adds. “And Miss Romanova just looked mortified. By the way, did you know that their family name is actually Demidova?”

“Oh, Fury told me,” Sam explains. “The aunt, Mrs. Demidova, is the sister of Natasha's mother. The uncle, Mr. Demidov, is from a quite newly nobled family, incredibly rich from the trade of iron and steel. The Romanov line is from her father's side, which means there's a really direct line from her up to the Tsar.”

“Seriously,” Bucky questions. “Fury  _ told  _ you something.”

Sharon snorts. “She said her mother is very ambitious as well. That must be quite the family.”


	14. Chapter 14

“I'm really sorry,” Natasha says. “I apologize for the behaviour of my aunt. She shouldn't have said any of this.”

“It's not your fault,” Sharon assures her. “But it's such a beautiful ball, really. Thank you for inviting everyone.”

“My pleasure,” Natasha replies. “I hope you at least enjoy the rest of the evening. Again, I'm very sorry.”

“You're not responsible for your aunt's behaviour,” Steve repeats. “Don’t worry about it.”

Natasha is already turning to go when Bucky blurts out: “Do you want to dance?”

Sam almost slaps him. Natasha turns back in surprise. “Excuse me? Oh, I'm sorry, you should have asked earlier. I'm already booked out for the evening. I'm sorry.”

He is kind of relieved but also disappointed. “Oh, nevermind.”

“Don't worry,” Sharon assures him when Natasha is gone. “I'll dance with you.”

Sam snorts. “No offense, but that's clearly not the same thing to him.”

“It's better that way,” Bucky says hollowly.

“Why did you even ask?” Sam complains. “She told you she hates dancing.”

“Well, she'll have to dance the whole evening anyway,” Steve states, looking at his watch. “We've been here only for half an hour, by the way.”

“That's not fair,” Sharon fake-complains. “Nobody asked me to dance yet.”

“They are clearly intimidated by your beauty,” Steve suggests. “Would you allow me the first dance, then?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “One would have thought you would have been through with it by now, but apparently not.”

Sharon stares at him. “What do you mean by  _ it _ ?”

“You know what I mean,” Sam deadpans.

Steve is blushing slightly, clearly relieved when the music starts. “Oh, good. Let's go.”

“Can we go too?” Bucky asks. “I want to see her.”

“Are you kidding?” Sam says. “I want to see her dance, too.”

Natasha is curtsying right now, in a line with other young women. He doesn't even know the man in front of her. They start stepping and swirling, coming together and separating again, switching with other couples and reuniting. Not one of Natasha's steps is out of place. Several people break form and turn their heads to watch her. She doesn't react, her step featherlight, she actually seems happy to him. The man doesn't even know what to say to her and she spins out of his reach when he opens his mouth, twirling, the pearls in her hair glitter, undoubtedly every single one of them real, and he loses his words again. She is wearing a dark dress with bright red accents, the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. She smiles politely, effectively disarming him. He still hasn't said a word when she curtsies and the dance is over.

“She shouldn't be here,” Sam mutters. “Just look at all of this.”

Natasha is lead off to the side, curtseying quickly to her dance partner, then moving on smoothly to a group of other women. She is immediately deep in conversation, leaving her poor dance partner just standing there.

“I'm serious,” Sam insists. “You always point out that she is so wealthy and that's true, of course, but it's not just that. Her aunt is wealthy, too, and Stark is as well, but none of them come close to her in class. Not because she's marrying a duke- that duke is actually  _ below  _ her. I don't know where her father stands exactly in the line of succession but she is much closer to a Princess than a Duchess. And almost nobody in this room should have the pleasure of meeting a member of the Imperial family.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees quietly. The next dance partner has come up to Natasha. Steve and Sharon are still together. “She shouldn't be here.”

“It's almost like she is stranded,” Sam muses. “The combination of her uncle's sickness and her apparent hesitancy to marry just yet- oh, and her willingness to put up with any of us. That's probably the most important part.”

Bucky snorts. Natasha starts moving beautifully again. He knows he should at least spare a look for Steve and Sharon but he can't tear his eyes away. “A rare bird,” Sam continues musing. “Well, Barnes, enjoy it while it lasts. And don't ruin it, for the love of God.”

The guy doesn't lift his arm soon enough and Natasha almost bumps into it but ducks away at the last moment. Bucky is incredibly angry with him for not doing her justice. “You should ask someone for a dance,” Sam remarks. “Start with Sharon if you must. You can't stand around the whole evening.”

Bucky snorts. “What are you going to do?”

“Me?” Sam repeats. “Oh. I'm going to ask Miss Maximoff.”

The violins are beautiful. The room is just splendid. Everything is just so perfect that it feels unnatural. Like being stuck in a gorgeous painting. A still life.

 

Natasha escapes after the fourth dance, bidding for a pause and disappearing in the smaller hall to sit down. Bucky gives up his search for a partner and follows her. She returns his gaze and he decides to come up to her. “Well. Did you hate that as much as you said?”

“A little,” she replies. “Mostly, my feet are hurting. Would you mind bringing me a glass of wine?”

“Of course.” He bows quickly before taking off. 

When he comes back, she is talking to another unknown man. “No, I am very sorry, but I am just so tired right now. I hope you can forgive me. I will gladly join you later.”

He stays in the background while they are still talking. The man looks unsatisfied but eventually leaves. Bucky sits down across from her and carefully hands her the glass. “Here. I don't want to spill it all over your dress again.”

“Thank you.” She smiles, leaning back. “Well, what do you think of the ball?”

“It's amazing, of course,” Bucky says. “How many men did you already reject today?”

“Five,” Natasha replies casually. “Six with you. Half a dozen.”

He snorts. “Oh, well. You are clearly in high demand.”

“You know what I would much rather do?” she asks. “Stab you. I think I'll manage it this time. I think I've figured out your secret.”

“There is no secret,” he replies with amusement. “Just long, hard training.”

“Of course man always assumes his accomplishments are the result of his hard work,” she states. “When they are actually given as a grace of God.”

Bucky snorts again. “So, you think God is on your side now? What did you do to earn his favour?”

“Oh.” She leans forward, conspiratorially. “I talk to him every night. There are no churches and priests here for me but as long as you believe in him, he will be there for you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And God supports your intention of stabbing me.”

“Absolutely.” She nods, entirely serious. “We both agreed that you deserve it.”

“That's not fair,” he complains. “What did I do?”

She smiles innocently. “You always put improper ideas in my head. It needs to stop if I am to keep my honour intact.”

“You know,” he remarks. “Murder is also considered highly improper.”

She leans forward even more. “Well then… so be it. Oh, Mister Odinsson!”

She is up and away suddenly, talking to the heir of the Odinsson family, a tall, blonde, very strong man. She looks so small again. Bucky sits there at a complete loss of… everything.

“Miss Romanoff,” Odinsson greets, kissing her glove. “A pleasure. Your ball is wonderful and you look just magnificent.”

“Thank you,” Natasha replies graciously. “Thank you for attending.”

“Would you like to dance?” Odinsson suggests. “You are very talented.”

Natasha smiles. “Absolutely. We should go fast, before any other interested parties show up.”

“Oh my,” Odinsson remarks with amusement, leading her towards the dance floor. “You are clearly very busy.”

Bucky feels a loud pang of jealousy. She is never going to dance with him. She just can't. Sam is right. But that she would say Yes to Odinsson, after rejecting so many others-

Oh, it doesn't matter. She is not going to dance with him. Whatever else she does is entirely up to her. He shouldn't even have asked. And he shouldn't have sat down with her in a quiet corner of the room, even though he can't bring himself to regret that. He gets up and goes looking for Steve or Sharon or anyone, really.

 

Later in the evening, Natasha is asked to play the pianoforte and has to comply. Hardly anyone has left. She sits down, breathing in, and starts to play a song he doesn't recognise. It sounds French. Bucky is leaning against a wall, watching her, drink in his hand. He's a little drunk, which is irresponsible, but he can't bring himself to care. Natalia is playing fulminantly, of course. Steve is leaning next to him, with Sharon somewhere else he currently doesn't care about.

“I should leave her alone,” he says when the music swells enough to drown out his voice. “I know I should. But I can't.”

Steve sighs. “You should.”

The song quiets down a bit before reaching its finale. Applaus rises. People are calling on her to sing. She doesn't look quite pleased but complies, starting a slower, quieter tune.

“She is just so-” Bucky sighs and takes a sip. “So witty and intelligent and beautiful and interesting. So lovely and charming and smooth and independent and witty and beautiful.”

“Bucky,” Steve remarks. “You are drunk.”

He is, but not drunk enough to prepare him for Natasha's singing voice, slender but strong. He grips his glass as if holding onto it. “That's Greensleeves,” Steve adds. “Isn't it?”

Bucky couldn't care less, it's the most beautiful thing he has ever heard. And what if a thousand people have sung it before? Nobody did it like she did. Steve sighs because he isn't answering. “Look, you shouldn't meet at Sam's stables. That's not safe.”

“Nothing is safe,” Bucky mutters.

“You can meet in our garden,” Steve suggests. “If you have to. Which, I guess you do.”

“I thought you wanted to hire a cook,” Bucky remarks.

“That can wait,” Steve replies. “I assume. I would have to ask Sharon, naturally.”

Bucky sighs, looking back at Natasha. She is going to ruin him. Which is okay, as long as he doesn't ruin her in the process. He can't fall that far anyway. He prays to God this doesn't go horribly wrong for her. She wouldn't deserve it.

She finishes the song under applause, smiles and looks around. Her eyes hitch on Bucky for a moment before she turns back to the pianoforte and strikes a dramatic chord. It trickles down from there. Bucky holds his breath. She starts singing slowly, suspensefully, and it takes him a moment to realize she is singing in Russian, he has no clue what she is saying but feels like he understands anyway. It is sad, mourning, wallowing, and she sings it with a full voice, not missing a single key. Practice. She pours everything into it, louder and louder, then toning down again. Just when he thinks she is done, she starts again, quicker this time, more forcefully. He is hearing the song for the first time but it is instantly his favourite, the wailing crawling into every piece of his soul. He's so sad. And drunk.

There's an element of fate to it, of inevitability, in her words, her face, her voice, and she keeps pushing it forward, almost desperately, before she slows down again, stretching the sounds as far as her voice allows her to go. Suddenly, her aunt sweeps in, grabbing her by the shoulder, and Natalia stops, startled, the pianoforte and her voice still reverberating from the walls. Her aunt looks angry. He can't understand what she is saying, hissing, not a word. Natasha bows her head. “Excuse me. I will play something else.”

“No, please, let her continue,” Stark throws in, jumping up from his front row seat. “It was such a beautiful song.”

Mrs. Demidova looks appalled. “Mister Stark, this is not a song for such an occasion like this. It is a gypsy song.”

“But it's very beautiful,” Stark insists. “Just let her finish. I'm certain no one here will mind.”

But Natasha is already playing another, harmless song, so Stark sits down reluctantly and her aunt disappears to wherever, a satisfied look on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song at the end is Ochi Chernye (Black eyes). I combined a few versions for this story:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=quA5c2oOa_8 (female singer)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TB8BYYlQAeE (piano version)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2r2UpVtNUE (male singer)


	15. Chapter 15

“Is that everything?” Bucky asks, amused. “I thought you wanted to stab me.”

“I'm just lulling you into a false sense of security,” Natasha replies, not letting him out of her focus for a second. “Just so you wait.”

Bucky lunges forward quickly but she knocks him back easily, with a wicked smile. She moves like she dances, only so much faster. He steps back. She prances around, mirroring his movements.

“So, you really meant it when you said she is that good,” Steve remarks from the sidelines.

Bucky doesn't let himself get distracted for a second. She wouldn't show mercy, he just knows. “Of course I meant it. Why else would I say it?”

Steve shrugs. Natasha locks blades with him, then attempts to slip past his defense. She doesn't really seem to care about their talking. He parries.

Sharon opens the kitchen window and leans on the window sill. “Steve, darling, I need help in the kitchen.”

Steve looks between Bucky and Natasha, then back to Sharon. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Sharon hisses. “Just come in.”

Natasha smiles at him and nods briefly. Bucky resists the temptation to use that chance. Sharon closes the window again, as discreetly as possible.

Steve walks around the house, wipes his boots on the doormat and joins her in the kitchen. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

Sharon shushes him, ostensibly stirring eggs with a craned neck. “Quiet. I'm keeping an eye on them, don't worry.”

“Maybe more than one,” Steve remarks with amusement, leaning on the counter. “What do you need help with?”

Sharon pushes a bundle of herbs towards him, without even looking. “Cut that. So, when are we going to do that?”

“It's really cold outside,” Steve replies, looking for a cutting board and a knife. “Maybe in the spring.”

“Darling,” Sharon remarks. “In the spring, I might already be with child.”

Steve smiles shyly. “Oh. Right. And after that, we will hardly find the time.”

“Exactly,” Sharon agrees, looking out of the window again. “Look, I appreciate the… nights we spend together, but I don't want that to dominate my entire life just yet.”

“Of course,” Steve agrees. “We could maybe get a governess.”

Sharon snorts, pointing out the window. “Steve, I'm not  _ her _ . I know I am going to raise our children mostly myself. I'm looking forward to it, in fact. But if we could put that off just a little, maybe until next year, if you could do that, I would appreciate that.”

“Sharon, I'm not making demands here,” Steve replies. “If you want to wait, we can wait. As long as we agree on the longer term.”

“We do,” Sharon assures him. “It’s just over this winter. I don't need much, but we should have at least a cook or a maid after that. Especially if I am with child.”

“You really want to cook the whole winter?” Steve questions.

Sharon snorts. “I will be a diligent and industrious wife. If you teach me swordfighting.”

“Oh,” Steve remarks with amusement. “So you are making demands. And if I don't, you won't be diligent and industrious?”

“Terribly so,” Sharon confirms. “I don't care what my mother will say. You wouldn't be able to stand it for long.”

“Let's not let that happen,” Steve decides. “Do you want to start now?”

“Oh my, you are taking forever with these,” Sharon complains, pulling the cutting board away from him and finishing it herself. “Here. No, let's wait until they are gone. Tomorrow.”

Steve peeks out the window nervously but can't see anything from where he is standing. “They are not... doing anything, are they?”

“Just talking,” Sharon assures him. “Don't worry. By the way, it wouldn't matter anyway.”

“Of course it would,” Steve disagrees.

“No, it wouldn't,” Sharon insists. “Just meeting him unsupervised, without a chaperone, everybody is going to assume the worst anyway. It doesn't matter what they actually do and don't do.”

Steve snorts. “Then why did you call me in? I was trying to chaperone.”

“It's too late anyway,” Sharon replies. “You're not going to make a difference. I just want them to meet here, where we can protect them and hide them. As long as we can.”

Steve sighs. “She really likes him, doesn't she?”

“She does,” Sharon confirms. “A lot. She is trying to have at least a little bit of both, what her family wants and what she wants, but she really can't. It's tragic, actually.”

“I don't have a good feeling about this,” Steve announces. “It's invariably going to end badly and we are just trying to control the damage.”

“Just let them have their moment,” Sharon pleads. “Before it all goes wrong.”

 

“Come on,” Bucky argues. “Let's take a break.”

“No way,” Natasha replies. “Just because you're faltering already…”

He snorts. “You’re really stubborn.”

“I would prefer  _ persistent _ ,” she corrects. “Oh, no, no, no. Don't do that.”

He studies her with amusement. “What is it this time?”

“You're holding your arm all wrong,” she complains. “On purpose. I'm not stabbing you just so we're done here.”

“Am I not allowed to make mistakes anymore,” he complains. “I thought you wanted to stab me.”

“In a fair and equal fight,” Natasha interrupts. “Not like this.”

He lowers his sword. “Come on. Nobody looking at this would say it's a fair and equal fight.”

She snorts, touching his chest with the point of her sword. “Fine. There.”

“I hope you're happy now,” he remarks, sheathing the sword. “But you're probably not.”

She doesn't reply directly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always,” he replies. “Why?”

“What about Mister Rogers’ parents?” Natasha asks. “Also dead?”

Bucky sighs. “His father was also in the army, died in the rebellion in the Americas. Steve was a child back then. His mother, an army nurse, contracted a disease over there. She died a few years ago, not having married again.”

“So he is born overseas,” Natasha concludes. “One might actually call him an American.”

Bucky snorts. “Well, they wouldn't send him over there to fight, that's for sure.”

“And you're both orphans,” Natasha remarks. “You were just ahead of him.”

“I guess,” Bucky replies. “Does that answer your question?”

Sharon comes into the garden with a tray of tea. “I thought you could use a hot drink. How is it going?”

“We're taking a break,” Natasha replies, arranging her hat. “Thank you.”

“Where did Steve go?” Bucky asks, picking up a cup.

“Inside,” Sharon replies briefly. “Why, do you need him?”

“I guess not,” Bucky retracts, taking a sip. “Just wondering.”

Sharon puts the tray on a bench and wipes her hands on her apron. “Well, I'll leave you to it. Please, have some tea.”

“Thank you,” Natasha repeats, coming to stand next to Bucky as soon as Sharon rounds the corner.

“Where's your watchdog, by the way?” he asks, attempting casualness.

“Ivan couldn't make it,” Natasha replies simply. “He has other duties than looking after me. I'm sure you are very disappointed.”

Bucky snorts. “You have noticed how he looks at me, right? Like I am about to shoot you.”

“Don't worry about Ivan,” Natasha says. “I have known him my entire life, without exaggeration. I wouldn't trust anyone more than him.”

Bucky sighs and sips his tea. Natasha looks amused. “You're afraid of being alone with me, aren't you?”

“I'm not worried for me,” Bucky replies coldly.

“You should be,” Natasha remarks casually, finally picking up a cup. “For all intents and purposes, I am a married woman.”

“You could still lose all of that,” Bucky reminds her. “Precisely because you are not married yet.”

Natasha snorts. “Do you really want to get thrown out of the regiment in disgrace?”

“Do you want to lose all support from your family?” he returns.

“No,” she concedes coldly. “I do not.”

He sighs, tilting up her chin and leaning in to kiss her. She grabs onto the lapel of his coat, holding on. He really doesn't care, can't care anymore.

“Don't stop,” she whispers, just as he is about to pull back, and he cups her cheek and kisses her again. It's so pointless, so futile, and he can't help any of it. She sighs quietly against his lips.

He lets go of her and she straightens out her coat, arranges her hat again. It's awful. All of this is awful and he couldn't do without it. Can't do with it, either.

She takes another sip as if nothing had happened. She is good that way. “I won't tell Ivan I came here today.”

“He'll find out anyway,” Bucky replies, feeling the need to take a step back.

“I'll tell him I just visited Sharon.” She brushes over her lips with her fingertips. “I shouldn't see you again.”

“No,” he agrees. “You shouldn't.”

“So Friday?” she suggests. “I will be at the Murdock's for luncheon. I can come here afterwards.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Friday afternoon.”

She puts the empty cup down, pouring tea into it again. “Would you sing the song for us again?” Bucky asks. “The Russian one your aunt didn't want you to sing?”

Natasha smiles. “Oh. I usually sing it for Vanya. It's nothing special, really.”

“What is it about?” Bucky probes.

“Oh my.” Natasha sips her tea. “I really shouldn't tell you. It's sad, very sad. Tragic.”

“I noticed,” he remarks. “But it's beautiful.”

Natasha sighs and tips her head back. “Will you kiss me again?”

“If you want me to,” Bucky replies.

“Yes,” Natasha confirms. “I want you to.”

He cups her head, almost reluctantly, and does as she wishes. Her eyes are still closed when he pulls back. “I don't want to go back,” she whispers. “I'm so afraid.”

“Don't be,” he murmurs. “Your family loves you. Just let them love you.”

She sighs, stepping back. “I'm going to miss you. When I'm gone.”

“Not as much as I'm going to miss you,” he replies. “When you're gone.”

Natasha looks at the kitchen window, even though there is no one there. “I'm going to miss all of you. I should never have come here. They only let me because they thought it wouldn't matter. But it does. It does matter.”

“I'm glad you were here,” he replies. “And I don't care what happens next. As long as you are fine, I don't care.”

“I'll try,” she says. “I'll really try to be happy. And a good wife.”

They shouldn't talk about this. They're just digging themselves in deeper. If that's even possible. He turns his head. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“I should ride home,” she replies. “Yes. I'll stay.”

He offers her his arm, surprised at himself, and she lets him lead her back into the house. He lets go before entering. Sharon in the kitchen looks delighted to see them. “Oh! Dinner is almost ready. You could maybe set the table if you want?”

“Sure,” Bucky replies, opening a cupboard in the dining room. Sharon moved some things when she moved in, but he still knows pretty much where everything is. Natasha takes the plates he's handing her and puts them wordlessly on the table.

Steve peeks in, nervously. “Did you bring the tray back?”

“Oh, no,” Bucky replies. “Still outside. I'll go get it.”

“No, I'll go, don't worry,” Natasha interrupts, breezing out the door.

Steve looks seriously disturbed. Bucky doesn't say anything. “I thought you would be happy.”

“It's not that easy,” Bucky replies coolly.

Steve sighs. “Did she say that she's leaving?”

“At some point.” Bucky looks for the cutlery. “Of course. But not concretely. Why?”

“Then what is it?” Steve asks. “You knew it. All of it. Why is it affecting you only now?”

Natasha comes back, bringing the tea tray into the kitchen to Sharon, sparing Bucky the pain of making up an answer.

 

At dinner, Steve and Natasha talk about the difficulties in her travel route, having to avoid France and such. Bucky doesn't say anything. It's a little tense but manageable. After dinner, Natasha and Sharon continue reading the Iliad while Bucky and Steve pretend to play cards but mostly just listen. It's long dark outside when they set out to leave. Natasha asks to come back on Friday, which Sharon grants immediately. It goes unspoken that Bucky will be there.

“Could you bring me home?” Natasha asks. “It's so dark.”

It sounds more like a useless pretense but it doesn't really matter. “Of course. I will ride with you. Do you need-”

She wraps the reins of her horse around her wrist wordlessly and moves to climb onto his horse. He helps her up, handing the reins back to her, then carefully climbing behind her. The horse buckles a little in protest but she is really not that heavy. It’s not far. It will be fine if they ride slowly.

He reaches around her to take the reins. Her legs are both on his right, pressed against his thigh. The saddle is really not made for this, so he has to lock her in between his elbows, her right arm goes around his waist. Stable enough. He presses in his heels to get the horse going.

Her head sinks against his left shoulder, eyes closed. Her horse, thoroughbred and well trained, trots beside them. It's dark. The main sounds are the hooves crunching on the gravel and her breathing. They leave the gravel road from Steve's house for a beaten path. Natasha's horse struggles to keep up so he slows his horse down even more. Natasha slips a bit more onto his lap with every step. He sighs quietly.

The curse is not even that she will leave, that he cannot hold her forever, it's that even when he can hold her, the way he wanted to, it doesn't feel the way it should. It only makes him sad. Yes, he should be happy. He thought he would be happy. How foolish.

“Stop here,” she mutters, opening her eyes. Bucky stops. They are already on their land, right before it at least. He slides off the horse. She puts her hands on his shoulders and he lifts her down.

“I can ride the rest of the way on my own,” she says. “Thank you.”

It's dark. He shrugs. “No problem.”

“I'm sorry it has to be like this,” she adds. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” he repeats. It's crazy how often they say it to her, how little control she has despite all her wealth, her social standing.

She sighs, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him down for a kiss. He hopes she enjoys it. He hopes it's all worth it to her. He pulls her against him by the waist, memorizing the feel of her. She is warm against him, despite their coats.

She steps back, blinking. “I need to go. I'll see you on Friday.”

“Yes,” he says. “Friday.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for domestic violence.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Natasha complains. “You're making me uncomfortable.”

“Sorry,” Bucky replies reflexively, looking down at her hands holding the book. No gloves. “Better?”

“No,” she says. “For God's sake. Can we go for a walk or something?”

“You know that we shouldn't,” Bucky replies quietly. They might meet someone. “We can go into the garden if you'd like.”

Natasha scoffs, flinging the book onto the floor and joining Sharon who's discreetly cleaning the kitchen. Bucky sighs. It's awful. He's longing for her, aching, and she is  _ right there. _

“You know, I don't know anyone who cleans and cooks for themselves,” she starts chattering. Sharon looks up in surprise. “I think it's an admirable trait.”

“Thank you,” Sharon replies carefully, as if walking on eggshells. “But really, it is borne more out of necessity than virtue.”

“You shouldn't sell yourself short,” Natasha chides. She sounds awfully rich and he hates her for it. “I admire you greatly.”

Sharon looks so uncomfortable that Bucky picks up the book and walks into the kitchen. “Could you sing the song? The one we talked about?”

Anger flashes in Natasha's eyes. “No. I don't want to sing.”

Sharon backs away quietly. Bucky sighs, crossing his arms. “Then what do you want to do?”

“Stop asking me that!” Natasha bursts, rushing back into the dining room and throwing herself in the window seat, staring out of the window in agony. “Stop asking. It doesn't matter.”

He puts the book down on the dining table, careful not to look at her. She's chewing on her nails, hunched over and tense. A nervous wreck. “Maybe you should call for the carriage.”

“I don't want to go home,” she mutters. “I'm sorry that I am insufferable. You can leave me alone if you want.”

Sharon rushes out of the kitchen to hug her tightly, tears pooling in her eyes. “No, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you have to go through this.”

Natasha doesn't say anything, burying her face in Sharon's shoulder. Bucky wishes he wasn't here. He wishes he had never been here in the first place, had never ever seen her. It would all be easier.

“Thank you,” Natasha mutters, more calmly. “Thank you. Please, just ignore me. Please.”

Sharon lets go of her reluctantly, going back into the kitchen. Bucky sits down across from Natasha. She looks at him with reserve. “I should never have done any of this. I should have continued pining for you from a distance.”

“Yes,” Natasha agrees neutrally. “You should have. And I never should have spoken to you. But bygones are bygones and the past is the past.”

“I don't want us to part ways like this,” he adds. “This is awful.”

“Then let's not,” she replies. “Let's have the sweetest, most amicable goodbye imaginable. I will try not to spoil it.”

He sighs, cupping her chin and kissing her. For the first time, he feels something other than sadness and regret. Natalia leans in, deepening the kiss almost aggressively. No, he doesn't want to let go. His fingers slip into her hair, not caring that he's destroying her delicate coiffure. She sighs, opening up. She smells unnaturally floral and he can hardly stand it, feels repulsed by it, but her taste is pure. His fingers dig in, pulling entire strands out of her updo.

She is the one to pull back, quietly tucking those strands back up. Sharon in the kitchen pretends really hard nothing ever happened. Natasha gives up, instead starting to pull out all the pins and hair clips and undoing the braids and combing through the wild curls with her fingers. It knocks the wind out of him how beautiful she is when disheveled, seeing what he was never supposed to see. Her practiced fingers fix the entire hairstyle up in only three minutes, without a mirror. She snorts, sticking a pin between her teeth. “I prefer that look on your face.”

He smirks. “Admiration?”

“Don't look at me like a tragedy,” she replies. “I'm not. I am in a very lucky position. I will lead a very happy life. I will be a great wife and we will have three wonderful children. I will be happy every day until the end of my life.”

“Even though you don't want to,” he remarks.

She smiles, pulling the pin out and sticking it in her updo. “Yes. It does not matter what I want.”

He sighs, leaning back, and she leans forward as if they were connected by a tight string. “Promise me you will be happy. Promise me.”

“I can't do that,” Bucky replies. “I don't know what will happen.”

“Promise me you'll try,” Natasha insists. “I couldn't leave otherwise.”

“Then maybe I shouldn't,” he jokes, but her face is deadly serious. No, this is not funny. “I will certainly try. Yes. I promise.”

“Good.” She leans back and he leans forward. “I'm glad we settled that.”

He sighs again. He can't let her walk out of the door. He can't let her go. He doesn't have the virtue for it. She's strong, she'll probably walk away and forget and lead her perfect life as she is supposed to. He can't imagine his life without her, even though he's only known her for so short a time. But she has a future and he doesn't want to interfere with that any more than he already has. “Do you regret it? Everything?”

She tilts her head. “That depends on what happens next. No. Not yet. But I'm afraid they will make me.”

“We'll keep the secret,” he replies. “Forever.”

“You'll have to,” she mutters. “All of you. Forever.”

“Don't worry,” Sharon adds quietly from the kitchen. “We will.”

“No, it'll be fine.” Natasha sits up straight. “As you said, when I'm gone, we will be dead to each other. Whatever you do will never touch me again. Even if the rumour were to spread, it would never be taken serious at the Russian court, if it even gets there. It's just too absurd.”

He does feel hurt by that. “Let’s not risk it.”

She smiles at him and if he can keep even one thing of her, he would pick this. “Yes. Let's not.”

 

He kisses her hand before she climbs into the carriage, putting a surprised look on her face. The coachman, not Ivan the bear, doesn't even look their way. She looks like she wants to say something but she can't, so it doesn't matter either way, she climbs into the carriage with some empty words of goodbye and she's gone.

Sharon is staring at him while he is staring after the disappearing carriage. He shrugs, deliberately, when it takes a turn and disappears. “She was never supposed to be here in the first place.”

“I would have wished you could at least have known some happiness before it ended,” Sharon says. “Not like this. But it poisons everything, doesn't it?”

“As soon as it even remotely approached anything serious,” he agrees. “Let's not talk about it. Where's Steve, by the way?”

“Work,” Sharon replies. “He'll be back later. You want to play cards until then, take your mind off things?”

Bucky snorts. “If you think that'll work, sure.”

 

“My dear Natalie,” her aunt starts in French. “You're now going to tell me exactly where you've been.”

“At the Murdocks’, for luncheon,” Natasha replies. “As I told you beforehand.”

“It's early evening,” her aunt states. “Where were you after that?”

“I visited Miss Carter, now Mrs. Rogers,” Natasha explains. “It's basically on the way.”

Her aunt's eyebrows furrow in anger. “Who else was there?”

“No one, tatie” Natasha lies. “Captain Rogers was at the regiment, I would assume.”

“No one,” her aunt repeats. “And if I asked the coachman, he would say the same thing? Not even a certain Sergeant you should never have invited into our house anyway?”

“He happened to be there,” Natasha admits. “I didn't know, of course- why are you asking me all of this, tatie?”

Her aunt's eyes flash coldly. “Oh, Natalie, you should know that you're in deep, deep trouble. Masha, how is it possible Monsieur Demidoff is still not here?”

The girl curtseys as Natasha stares down at her plate. “Monsieur is in his study. Shall I tell him again?”

The aunt scoffs, pushing her plate away. “My appetite is ruined anyway. Natalie, you will come with me to your uncle and tell him what you did, right now.”

Natasha gets up dazedly, not fast enough for her aunt who grabs her by the arm and pulls her into the hallway where she rushes ahead again while Natasha stays, staring at Ivan, her Vanya, with empty, tearfilled eyes. “Why? Why did you tell her?”

Ivan straightens his shoulders. “It’s only for your best, Natushka.”

“Natalie!” screeches through the hallway and Natasha hurries after her aunt, trying to breathe deeply.

Her aunt is already complaining loudly while her uncle seems more annoyed than anything else. “...as if I wouldn't find out, as if she could do as she pleases, with no regard for morals and her duties as a future wife of-”

“Natalie,” her uncle interrupts tiredly. “Sit down over there. Yes. Madame Demidova tells me you have something to confess to me.”

“Absolutely she does,” her aunt hisses. “Absolutely.”

Her uncle turns his head in annoyance. “Madame Demidova, would you leave us alone?”

Her aunt pales and leaves the room only under nasty hissing. Natasha continues to stare at the floor. Her uncle sighs in relief when her aunt is gone. “So. You have sinned.”

“Haven't we all,” Natasha mutters without looking up.

“Your parents will be very displeased to hear I didn't oversee you properly as your guardian,” her uncle adds. “You are putting me in a very unpleasant position here. Do you understand that?”

“Yes,” Natasha murmurs.

“I have failed your parents,” her uncle repeats. “But most importantly, you have failed your parents and that should make you very ashamed, to have brought such dishonor on your family. You understand?”

“Yes,” Natasha murmurs.

“Now, this Sergeant Barnov, as I understand, is a man of no social standing and no wealth whatsoever,” her uncle states. “Is that correct?”

“He is,” Natasha replies quietly.

“He can thus easily be discredited,” her uncle concludes. “Who else, other than our loyal Vanya, knows about this affair?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Rogers,” Natasha replies. “And Mister Wilson. All of whom are close friends of Sergeant Barnes and are thus completely disinclined to reveal anything that could damage his position in the regiment.”

“You are smart,” her uncle remarks. “Is it a moral failing then? What made you stray off the path of God when you should have known better?”

Natasha doesn't say anything. Her uncle sighs, picks up a letter, puts it down again. “Has he seduced you?”

“Uncle!” Natasha protests. “No. I would never- no. I know my chastity is a requirement for my wedding.”

“Have you been alone with him?” her uncle inquires. “Completely alone?”

“Vanya was-” Natasha swallows. “Or one of his friends. No. Never.”

“So you are certain no irreparable harm has been done,” her uncle mutters, picking up the letter again and reading through it quickly. “Naturally, you will be barred from leaving the house again, as you clearly cannot be trusted. You will leave in precisely two weeks, yes, over the winter, and you will go back to Saint Petersburg, which you frankly should have done a goddamn long time ago, and you will get married to Duke Shostakov and your parents will finally forgive me. I think-”

Her aunt bursts in. “What were you thinking? Don't you know how much damage you could have done, to yourself, to us, to your family? How much damage you did? God sees everything, Natalie, and no amount of praying will make this- this  _ wenching  _ be forgiven. You will never be a good and faithful wife, as you are clearly rotten to the core, you are lost to God, and you owe it to your family to at least keep them out of harm's way- oh, your poor brothers! How could you do this to them? You are truly lucky the rumour of your wretchedness has not spread, but you are a wretched wench and you always will be! It is beyond me what devil got into you to-”

“I love him,” Natasha says quietly.

Her aunt gasps, brutally slapping her across her face. Her uncle sighs, not looking up from his letter. “What?! Nobody asked you about your petty feelings! You will love who you are supposed to love, as a daughter, as a wife, as a mother! Nobody asked you what you want! You're just a child and you are so, so wrong, so unbelievably stupid, so blasphemously arrogant! You will accept what is decided for you by your family and you will be grateful to them and to God for what we have all done for you! And if you utter this word again, God help me.”

Natasha looks down, blood dripping from her split lip down her chin. Her aunt turns to her uncle. “Monsieur, are you just going to sit there and say nothing? Is that it? Is that all you have to say about this?”

“Madame Demidova, she is going to leave for Saint Petersburg in two weeks,” replies her uncle. “That is all that matters. Leave her be. And for God's sake, stop making these awful noises.”

Her aunt screeches like a fury. “Leave her be? Don't you see the evil infesting her? Her poor parents, her poor family-” She grabs Natasha by her hair, dragging her off the couch. “Interrupting her elders, keeping wholly inadequate company, engaging in improper relations with an absolute nobody who has nothing, absolutely nothing worthy of any praise-”

“Stop,” Natasha whimpers. “Please stop.”

“My dear,” her uncle says. “Don't ruin her face. She will have to attend some social gathering before leaving.”

Her aunt scoffs, letting go of Natasha's hair and kicking her when she topples over. “I cannot believe this wretchedness! What have we ever done to you? Why are so insolent? Why can't you just accept what your wise parents decided for you? Clearly, this demon, this evil will have to be beaten out of you. Love him- I'll  _ show  _ you love!”


	17. Chapter 17

“Are you sure you don't want to eat?” Steve asks. “It's really delicious.”

“I'm sure it is,” Bucky replies emptily, poking around the tiny piece of meat pie he has. “Sorry, Sharon, I can't. I just- I can't.”

“Then Steve will have to eat more,” Sharon replies in an attempt to lighten up. “I'm sure it'll be a huge hassle for him.”

Steve snorts, chewing. Ever since his growth spurt in his late teens, he has been burning through food at an abnormal rate. Bucky sighs and puts the fork down. “How was it at the regiment?” Sharon asks quickly.

“Not good, I'm afraid,” Steve tells her. “What we hear from France, it's- well, you know. I think we will be going to war sooner rather than later.”

“Can't you tell us something pleasant?” Sharon complains. “What has become of this world that everything is just awful?”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky says, pushing his chair back. “I should walk home.”

“For God's sake, Buck, stay,” Steve interrupts. “Please. Do you want to talk about it?”

Scrunching gravel, hooves, rumbling wheels. They all look out the window but can't see anything. “It's late,” Sharon wonders, getting up. “Who would that be?”

It's Natasha's illustrious carriage, as Sharon sees when she hurries out the door, and the burly coachman who sometimes, quite often actually, accompanies her. The coachman gets down but the door is not pushed open from the inside as usually. Instead, the coachman sees Sharon and walks over. “Madame,” he starts, with a strong accent, hardly intelligible. “Venir. S'il vous plaît.”

Sharon follows him up to the coach, which seems to have been his intention, despite already being in her slippers. He stops before pulling the carved door open. “Elle voulait ici.”

“She wanted to come here?” Sharon asks, climbing in when he opens the door.

It's dark, with the curtains pulled. Sharon needs a moment to orient herself. Natasha is sitting across from her. Sharon blinks.

She looks horrible. There's something- there's a streak of dried blood down from her lip, her left eye is unnaturally dark and swollen, and she is hunched over to be as small as possible, despite her outfit pushing her to sit upright. Sharon gasps. “Oh my God! Natasha, what- what happened?”

Natasha doesn't answer, staring with lost eyes on a point on the expensive upholstery next to Sharon. Sharon leans forward, carefully touching her knee. Natasha still flinches. “Good Lord. Who did- did your uncle do this to you? What happened? Did they- your aunt?”

The coachman is still holding the door a crack open, watching Natasha with worry. She carefully moves her head, though not her eyes, lifting her chin as if it hurts. “You need to come in,” Sharon says. “Please. Good Lord, I am so sorry.”

Natasha turns her head to the side, away from Sharon, away from everything and everyone. “I don't want them to see me like this.”

“Good Lord,” Sharon repeats, untying her apron and putting it over Natasha's ridiculously fashionable hat, meticulously in place as always, so she can tie it upfront so it hides most of her face. “You need to come in. Okay? I will help you. Your coachman will help you. Okay? Can you get up?”

Natasha doesn't react and Sharon almost despairs. Good God, she had been so beautiful, so perfect, so untouchable- No, she needs to do something. She carefully takes Natasha's arm, supporting her. The coachman takes the other side, with a delicacy at odds with his form, and together, they lift Natasha out of the carriage more than she walks. Natasha grabs onto the apron as if she was hung on it, covering her face. Her posture is bad. Sharon will worry about that as soon as she is inside, as soon as she has cleaned her face, as soon as-

Bucky's face has the color of gravel. Steve does not look any less worried. “Stop staring!” Sharon spits as she helps Natasha along. “For God's sake.”

Natasha pulls the apron even more over her head, ironclad fingers. She seems to care more about that than actually walking. Steve helpfully holds the door while Bucky just stands there like a brick wall. Sharon helps Natasha into the dining and living room, carefully placing her on a chair. The coachman does not leave her side. Sharon snorts, getting up and rushing towards the door. “What the hell are you doing? Get out. Both of you.”

She doesn't even wait for a response, just shoves her husband out and shuts the door in his face. The coachman is talking to Natasha in a soothing bass tone but she still holds onto the apron tightly, not reacting visibly. Sharon kneels down, carefully plucking the cloth out of her fingers. There's no real resistance once she pulls a little. Her eye looks even worse in proper light. She unties her hat, pulling that off as well. Her hair is much more of a mess. Good Lord, she must have put on the hat after all of this happened, carefully arranged it-

The Russian coachman is still talking, whatever he is saying. Sharon pulls Natasha's chin up slightly to look at the lip. It's started bleeding again. Sharon gets up and takes the apron, some tea towels from the kitchen, then opens the door just a crack, shoving the cloths into Steve's hands. Bucky has assumed the color of a brick wall. “Do something useful and drench them in cold water. For God's sake.”

She returns to Natasha's side without waiting for an affirmation. The coachman has stopped talking, looking at Natasha pleadingly. There's nothing else he pays any attention to. Sharon carefully touches Natasha's corseted waist. She flinches. “Did she hit you? Here too?”

Natasha doesn't answer. The coachman starts talking again. Oh, Sharon could punch a wall. There's something wrong with the corset that's hurting her, visibly. Probably broken. Oh, God, she hopes no broken bone has pierced through the fabric into her waist. There's no blood to be seen, though. Too many layers maybe. Sharon gets up and pulls all the curtains.

There's a knock on the door and when she opens it, Steve wordlessly hands her the wet cloths. Oh, she is so grateful she can count on him even now. She smiles quickly at him before closing the door and hurrying over to clean Natasha's face.

She hisses a bit when Sharon comes too close to the split lip but really, there's no helping it. Sharon pulls off her gloves and lifts Natasha's hand to keep the cloth pressed on the bleeding lip while she puts the others on the swollen eye. Oh, it looks bad. It fills her with rage. “Oh, Natasha, I'm so sorry.”

The coachman holds the cloth over her eye. Sharon moves down to unbutton the robe. “I'm sorry, but I think you need to take off the corset. It's okay, the curtains are pulled. Do you want your coachman to leave?”

Natasha shakes her head minutely, the first reaction in a long time. Sharon continues unbuttoning the robe. Two steel bones on the right side have penetrated the fabric of the corset, clearly broken. Just the force you would need to apply-

The coachman gently lifts Natasha to her feet like she weighs nothing, the robe slipping onto the floor carelessly. Sharon walks around and starts unlacing the corset. Oh God, that's tight. It takes her seemingly forever until she has it loosened enough so she can open it in the front. Two bones are broken, the ones piercing through the fabric, but only on the outside. Her posture is still all wrong. The Russian coachman carefully lowers her onto the chair again.

Sharon takes the cloths, both lukewarm, gets up and gives them to Steve again. Only when she's already closed the door does she realize she should maybe have said something. Oh, he'll know what to do. She walks back, kneeling before Natasha's chair again. “Where does it hurt?”

Natasha snorts, surprisingly. “Everywhere.”

“Did she hit your stomach?” Sharon asks. “Did she kick you there?”

Natasha shifts uncomfortably instead of answering. Sharon sighs. “I'll try to feel what's wrong. Carefully but it might still hurt. Okay?”

Natasha doesn't reply but Sharon continues anyway. Oh God, her waist is really that slim. She hisses in pain. Sharon feels around that spot. She is no doctor, she has no clue what she is doing, but it's probably a bruised rib. Maybe more than one.

Another knock on the door. Sharon hands the wet cloths to the coachman who holds them to the split lip and the swollen eye again. Sharon feels up the painful spot again. Maybe she's imagining it but it's a bit swollen. “Does it hurt when you breathe?”

“Yes,” Natasha replies. “Especially if I breathe deeply.”

“You should see a doctor,” Sharon suggests. “I really can do nothing other than cool it a little.”

“I don't want to see a doctor,” Natasha mutters, staring at a window. “I can't see a doctor.”

Sharon sighs. “Well, cooling it is. I can help you take off all the petticoats so we can put a wet cloth there as well.”

“It's okay,” Natasha mutters. “It doesn't hurt that bad.”

Sharon drops on another chair with a sigh. She looks awful. “They found out, didn't they?”

Natasha doesn't say anything, continues staring. She has more composure now, somehow. Sharon realizes all the food is still on the table. “Can I do anything? Do you want to eat, drink, anything? Should I change the wet cloths?”

“It's okay,” Natasha repeats. “Could I have some wine?”

Sharon walks into the kitchen and pours a glass. It's cheap wine. Under any other circumstances, she would be embarrassed. Natasha takes the glass with a thankful nod, sipping slowly. It's like watching her come to terms with everything second by second. “You can sleep here,” Sharon suggests. “Your coachman too. We don't have a guest room but we could fit you on the sofa or something.”

“I can't go back,” Natasha mutters. “Yes. Thank you. God, I-”

She actually starts crying. Only now. The coachman rubs her shoulder with his big paw. Sharon feels terribly out of place. “I'm so sorry this happened to you. Your aunt is truly a despicable person.”

Natasha continues crying with no sign of having heard or listened. Sharon stares at the cold meat pies. How do people have appetites? How do they eat? She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to Natasha.

She cries for a few minutes and then she is done, visibly, straightening with a pained flinch, wiping her eyes, the swollen one more carefully. “Do you want cool cloths again?” Sharon asks.

“It's okay,” Natasha says. “Thank you.”

“How can you say it's okay?” Sharon probes. “It's not okay. It's really not.”

“It'll have to be,” Natasha replies almost resolutely. “It'll have to.”

Sharon sighs, getting up and pacing. “I should- you don't want anything to eat, are you sure? I can- I should prepare your bed. Is it okay if I leave for a moment?”

“Please stay,” Natasha interrupts. “Please. The bedding can wait.”

Sharon sighs and sits down again. “How are you feeling? Beyond the injuries?”

Natasha snorts quietly, sipping wine again. “Not great.”

“I'm so sorry,” Sharon repeats. “I don't know what to say.”

“It's late, isn't it?” Natasha says, turning slowly to look at the clock. “I'm sorry I'm keeping you up. I just couldn't stay- there.”

“I understand,” Sharon agrees immediately. “Don't worry about it. It's not even that late. Just- it gets dark early these days, in winter. God, what am I saying, of course it does.”

“Keep talking,” Natasha pleads. “Anything. Please.”

“I don't like the cold,” Sharon says. “And, well, the fog of course. I like spring. Flowers and the smell of grass and little bugs humming through the air- I used to look at bugs for hours, when I was a child. Peggy made fun of me but when she found a special one, she would catch it in a glass and show me. It took me awfully long to understand that they suffocate in there. I always thought they just- I don't know what I thought they die from, but it wasn't suffocation or starvation or anything sensible like that.”

Natasha almost smiles before her split lip comes in between.


	18. Chapter 18

He really should have known. He had this bad feeling when he saw her coach, even worse than the bad feeling he's had for quite some time now. And seeing her was just- he should have known. He should have known, and he should never have done  _ anything. _

Yet he did, unfortunately, and now Natalia is sitting in the next room badly hurt while he is pacing through the hall. How  _ could  _ they? She looked awful, so, so awful, just thinking about it makes his insides churn. How could they do this to her? She was so- not responsible, but careful. She was never going to ruin her life over this, she's too smart for that. This was just- unnecessary and cruel.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters. “I told you it would be worse for her. Infinitely worse.”

It's all his fault. She was just- She doesn't deserve any of this, and it's all his fault, and he could claw his eyes out. He should never have done anything. What kind of arrogance, what insolence had gotten him that he thought he could- And now, she's paying for it when it's so clearly all his fault.  He can't stand any of this for a second.

Sharon opens the door and shoves some bunched up cloths out. “Do something useful and drench them in cold water. For God's sake.”

Steve, ever helpful, takes them and heads out for the well, but not before shooting Bucky a grave look. Yes, he screwed it all up. But they wouldn't have needed to- She could have just disappeared, going back as they want her to, and they wouldn't have had to lay a  _ finger  _ on her, he can't imagine she wouldn't have followed, but this is just cruel and vindictive and so, so unnecessary, and he  _ really should have known. _

Steve returns with the dripping cloths, knocking on the door and waiting until Sharon opens. Bucky can't pay attention. He should do something about it, all of it, her uncle, he should duel him or just stab him or shoot him or-

“Buck,” Steve interrupts with worry. “Don't do it. You'll just make it worse for her. Even worse.”

Bucky snorts because he is so transparent but really, he is so, so ready to fight, if only there were a solution to this, any solution, but there isn't and he has to pace through this hallway while Natalia is sitting next door and suffering from what he screwed up. “It just- It all sucks.”

It's stupid, it's way beyond just sucking, it is a colossal injustice and she doesn't deserve the first bit of it. God, he wants to shoot her uncle and her arrogant aunt too, while he's at it, and none of Steve's warning looks can stop him. They'd deserve it, all of it, for what they did to her, and he doesn't care what consequences it has for him.

“I know you're feeling guilty,” Steve says. “But for God's sake, there's really nothing you can do that would  _ help  _ it.”

He is guilty, and he is so bloody angry and ashamed and appalled and he could go through the whole alphabet, furious, mad, raging. He can't bear it. He could never bear anything happening to her and now it has and it's the worst thing ever. And he can't do anything. Just standing here, pacing while she is suffering next door- he has the intense desire to see her, talk to her, but knows it wouldn't actually help anything either. Damage has been done, irreparably, and there's just nothing he or anyone could do to undo what happened to her. And that drives him bloody nuts.

Sharon opens the door again and hands the cloths back wordlessly. One has a clear blood stain on it. She's  _ bleeding _ . Good Lord, this is even worse than he thought. He wants to go in so badly but doesn't even know what to say. What's he supposed to say when it's all his fault, when he screwed it up so badly, when he caused her such pain? How could he dare even looking at her? He'd just make it worse, even worse than he already has.

Steve drenches the cloths in cold water and knocks on the door again, waiting. They're just standing in the hallway, bottled up rage and shame and guilt, pacing through the tiny room. Sharon again takes the cloths without a word. He wishes she would say something, tell him Natalia is okay, but of course she isn't, of course not, because he screwed it up and now she has to suffer for it.

Steve leans against the wall, crossing his arms and sighing. “Just wait here in case she wants to talk to you. And for God's sake, don't do anything before you have. Buck, are you even listening?”

He is, even though he maybe doesn't look like it. He can't believe all of this. It's so overwhelming. For God's sake, how could they do this to her? What bloody right do they have to- he is shifting from guilt to anger again. And he shouldn't, because the rage is almost satisfying and the guilt is just worse, and that's exactly what he deserves. He stops and tries to take a deep breath. “Yeah. I'll- I'll wait.”

 

It takes hours, hours of pacing through the hallway and sitting down on the stairs and getting up again, all the while constantly reproaching himself. It's already well into the night, but thankfully Steve hasn't even suggested he go home and come back later. He couldn't, he really couldn't, not if she is sitting next door and suffering because of him. It doesn't matter that he can't do anything. It would still be disgraceful to leave her.

Steve is yawning then and again. He should be in bed. Maybe he could even sleep, unlike Bucky. Well, none of this is Steve's fault, so that should make it easier. Still, it's just so horrible and heartbreaking that they would do this to her, and Steve must see that, feel that. And thus they are getting no sleep at all.

The tallow candles have all burned down by now, leaving only their nasty smell, and there's a bit of light from outside but it's mostly dark. Sometimes, they can hear women's voices from next door, not intelligible though. Steve hasn't said anything in hours.

Bucky has almost dozed off, sitting on the stairs, by the time the door quietly opens and Sharon carefully steps into the dark. Steve blinks tiredly. Bucky is on his feet almost immediately.

Sharon looks at him gravely while Steve wraps an arm around her and presses a kiss into her hair. Oh, she looks tired as well. “She wants to talk to you.”

Bucky freezes while Sharon turns to Steve and mutters something about bedding. He wanted to talk to her, of course, but now he's so scared that he doesn't, so scared he could probably not even look at her, he couldn't bear seeing what he did to her- what they did to her because of him. Steve pushes Sharon past him, up the stairs, and they go up together and he is left all alone in the dark hallway.

He puts his hand on the door handle, breathing deeply. He has to do this, no matter how much he doesn't want to. He has to do it for her sake, because he owes it to her. He breathes in, carefully pushes the handle down and steps in.

There's a candle by the window where she is sitting with her back to him, staring through the glass, and another candle on the dining table, shining onto the face of Ivan the bear who looks at him like he is the devil incarnate, the source of all evil, and if all you care about is Natalia's life, that's probably even true. He is standing there, tall and dark and unmoving, and in that light, that's even creepier. Bucky takes a chair, all the food is still on the table, just covered with tea towels, and sits down across from her at a respectful distance. Ivan the bear doesn't take his eyes off him even to blink.

Bucky opens his mouth and finds he has nothing to say, he can't even tell her he's sorry, so goddamn sorry, because he sees her properly for the first time and there's a clot of blood on her lower lip, her left eye blossoming in purple, and she is holding her side, right side. She looks awful. He shouldn't stare, really shouldn't, but can't take his eyes off her injuries because it's all his goddamn fault. “How bad does it hurt?” he asks, finally, clenching his hands in his lap.

She doesn't look at him, still staring at the night sky, reaching out to a glass on the window sill. “It's okay. The wine helps.”

“I'm so sorry,” he says. “I'm so bloody sorry.”

She snorts quietly. “Oh, I bet you are.”

She takes a sip. He feels even worse. “I'm really sorry. It's all my fault.”

“It's not your fault or my fault,” Natasha interrupts. “It's our fault. We should both have known better.”

Ivan the bear is still watching his every move like he is dangerous. Which he is, in such a stupid way. He groans, leaning back. “I can't believe they did this to you. Just your face and your side and- how could they ever hurt you? Jesus Christ, if I saw your uncle, I would-”

“If you so much as approach them, I swear to God I'll throw myself off a bridge,” Natasha interrupts coldly. “I'm serious. I swear to God.”

He sits there at a loss of words. She puts the glass down and shifts slightly in her seat, sighing at the pain this obviously causes her. “What did they do to you?” he asks, even though he knows. “Beat you? Kicked you?”

“It doesn't matter now,” Natasha replies very matter-of-fact. “My belongings will be packed up as soon as tomorrow. I will leave for Russia in two weeks. This is the last time you will see me, ever.”

“You can't be serious,” he states. “You're going back? They beat you! They bloody beat the shit out of you! How could you ever go back to that?”

“What else am I supposed to do?” she asks back aggressively. “Stay here? For how long? With what money? I'd be a disgrace for my family, for all of society, and nobody will ever look at me, talk to me again. I'd have nothing, no money, no respectability, no standing. I'd essentially be your wench and maybe you would actually like that, but I sure as hell wouldn't.”

“Of course I wouldn't want that,” he objects, feeling insulted. “But how do you know they won't do it again?”

“If she does, I'll bear it,” Natasha replies resolutely. Of course it was the aunt. He should have known. “It's only two weeks. Then I'll be gone, back to my family who actually loves me, and I will marry and not give my husband any reason to do this to me, ever.”

“And how do you know he won't do it without a reason?” Bucky inquires. “You don't even know him.”

Natasha snorts. “How do I know you will always be perfectly respectful? My own aunt beat me. Clearly, one can never be sure.”

“I would never hurt you,” Bucky claims. “Good Lord.”

“You already did,” Natasha reminds him. “So shut up and don't make this harder than it has to be.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Clearly, he's guilty. But he never intended to- if he would have known, he would never have- oh, but he knew. He should have known. She takes another sip of wine. “It's not as bad as it seems, though. There are no rumours yet. I will be able to leave with my honour intact and nobody will ever ask you anything. So, we will both get out of this relatively unscathed, if you ignore my current injuries, of course.”

“I can't ignore that,” he complains. “Please don't go back. We will find a way, some way to- some way to fix this.”

Natasha smiles at him, sadly, and it's worse than anything she could have said. She'll go back, she'll go through with it, no matter what it costs her, and there's nothing he could do to stop her. “Will you stay with me for a while? Just sit here and stare out of the window together. Since this is my last night in freedom or however you want to call it.”

Ivan the bear is still looming by the kitchen door. It's so late and he's so tired. She looks so awful and he can hardly bear looking at her. “I'd stay forever if you asked me to.”


	19. Chapter 19

They're dozing when Sharon comes down in the morning, the huge coachman on a chair that should actually break under his weight yet somehow doesn't, Natasha in her seat by the window. Bucky is nowhere to be seen. Sharon quietly slips into the kitchen, heating up the stove and putting a teapot on it. The bread is old and a little dry, but it'll have to do. She puts butter and marmalade out as well.

Eventually, she has to leave the kitchen and get all the leftover dishes from yesterday evening. The coachman starts awake when she opens the door, blinking at her in confusion. She nods at him, hoping he understands. He nods back, still slightly confused, then gets up and sits closer to Natasha who is still sleeping. He looks at her like she is the moon and the stars, in a fatherly manner, and Sharon has absolutely no doubt he would catch a bullet for her.

She puts the dishes from last night in the kitchen and breakfast on the table, pulling out the expensive china her mother gave her when she married. Steve comes down, tiptoeing towards the table. Natasha is still fast asleep, her robe carefully hung over the back of a chair, the hat placed on the seat. The black eye is already solidly purple.

They eat breakfast as silently as possible, careful and slow with the china and the cutlery. Steve gets up eventually, pressing a kiss to Sharon's cheek and leaving the house. Sharon leaves the rest of the breakfast on the table, just washes the dirty dishes in the kitchen. The meat pie will still be fine for lunch or dinner today. She heads out into the garden to get fresh water and pluck a few herbs for tea or seasoning. The ground is hard with frost. She packs some apples stored behind the house into her basket as well.

Natasha is sitting at the table and drinking tea already when she comes back. The coachman has his plate stocked with bread. Sharon offers them the apples, putting everything on the table and sitting down. “You really want to go back?”

“There is no other way,” Natasha replies simply. “I feel better already. Thank you for letting me stay.”

“Of course,” Sharon replies. “You can stay as long as you want. How is your side?”

Natasha puts her hand there, still flinching slightly. The corset is under the hat. “It's definitely a bruise.”

“I'm worried more about your ribs,” Sharon says. “Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor?”

Natasha snorts, picking up the tea cup. “And what am I going to tell him happened? I fell down the stairs? Riding accident? He'll know.”

“I'm sure Nick has doctors you could trust,” Sharon presses. “Please.”

“I don't want to trust a single person anymore,” Natasha replies harshly. “Excuse my tone. I trust you, of course.”

“I could come with you,” Sharon suggests. “I could stay with you for two weeks, until you leave. Just to make sure they don't do it again. I would have to ask Steve, of course, but I can't imagine him objecting.”

Natasha smiles faintly. “Sharon, you are so, so precious. But you don't know them. It wouldn't stop them and I don't want you to witness that.”

It knocks the wind out of her. Just imagining that Uncle Nick, Aunt Maria would… no. Never. She can't even imagine. “Then you can't go back. If they might do it again.”

“Vanya will be with me,” Natasha replies. “If she goes too far. I don't think you understand the situation I am in. If I lose this, if I don't go back, if I don't get married, if my family abandons me, I will have absolutely nothing. I would crawl back on my knees and beg her for forgiveness, if that's what it takes.”

“But is it worth it?” Sharon asks. “If it takes so much, is it worth it in the end?”

“There's no alternative,” Natasha replies simply. “There’s no other way. I assure you it will get better. It's just these two weeks that I have to get through.”

“How can you be so sure about that?” Sharon questions. “How?”

Natasha sighs and puts the tea cup down. “My aunt may think I am an evil wench possessed by the devil, but my parents genuinely love me. My father loves me, my brothers love me, my mother loves me. They wouldn't let anything happen to me, if they could prevent it, if they knew about it. If my husband were to… I could always flee there and hide.”

“How could you marry someone like that?” Sharon complains. “If you think he could do something like that?”

“I just don't know,” Natasha replies. “I'm preparing for every possibility. Maybe none of this is necessary. I just don't know.”

Sharon sighs. “So you're really going to go back.”

Natasha nods, picking up a loaf of bread. “I'm going to miss you. You were always there for me, with compassion and understanding. You are smart and humble and yet don't let others tell you what to do or not to do. I aspire to be a little more like you.”

“I'm going to miss you even more,” Sharon claims. “You’re so much smarter than me, educated, thoughtful, accomplished. You're elegant and beautiful and you know how to carve out space for you to breathe without offending anyone. With your standing, you could be so arrogant, but you are not. Really, I want to be more like you, and not because you are so rich.”

Natasha smiles. “It's going to be so hard to climb into this carriage, I'm telling you.”

“Yet you're still going to do it,” Sharon remarks.

“Yes.” Natasha bites into the bread. “I'm still going to do it.”

 

“He promised her never to come near her again?” Sam asks. “Really? He did that?”

“Of course he did,” Steve replies. “You didn't see her. She looked really bad.”

Sharon watches Natasha, across the room. There's hardly a trace. The black eye is gone and covered with makeup. Her lip has healed. She moves a little more carefully but not remarkably different. And she smiles.

“I hope she is better now,” Sam remarks. “With that bitch of an aunt. I can't imagine how she deals with living with someone like that.”

“She insisted it's only for two weeks,” Sharon replies. “She’s leaving on Friday. This is her last dance, so to speak.”

“Still,” Sam insists. “And how is her dear Romeo doing?”

Steve snorts. “What do you think? Horribly. But he promised. And he knows he'd only make it worse.”

“I'm still worried about her,” Sharon adds. “They essentially locked her up until this ball. They wouldn't let me visit her, claiming she was sick. Sure, she seems better, but you know how she is.”

“You can go talk to her,” Sam suggests. “Though she wouldn't tell you the truth, probably.”

“I think she needs to bid her farewell with everyone,” Sharon remarks. “We kind of already said our goodbyes. She'll come over if she wants to.”

Steve sighs, sipping on his drink. “This was always going to happen, wasn't it? We couldn't have done anything.”

“Short of locking him up in your cellar,” Sam agrees. “I mean, we couldn't possibly have known she would  _ like  _ him. That much. How were we supposed to expect that?”

Sharon snorts. “Oh, shut up. Let her have one stupid fancy in her horribly reasonable life.”

“I'd let her do whatever she wants,” Steve suggests. “But her family won't.”

Sharon sighs. “Yeah. And clearly, she will do what they want from her.”

“What else was she supposed to do?” Sam asks. “Elope? Run away with him? How long until she can't stand him anymore and claws his face off? No, that was never going to happen.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, we should have locked him up in a cellar somehow. Months ago.”

“Maybe it made her happy for a while,” Sharon suggests. “I think it did. Maybe it was worth it to her, before she does the reasonable thing for the rest of her life and marries a guy she doesn't even know and so forth.”

“That doesn't sound reasonable,” Steve objects.

“That guy's a  _ duke _ ,” Sam reminds him. “So, yes, perfectly reasonable.”

Natasha smiles, curtseying and excusing herself from a group. She turns, her skirts spinning, expensive fabric rustling. She's in all white, not a single stain, white as fresh snow. There are better colors for her skin tone, but she looks so rich it doesn't matter. Looking around, her gaze falls upon Sharon and the two others and a smile enters her face again. Everyone steps out of her way as she strides across the room towards them.

Sharon curtseys while Sam and Steve bow. Natasha truly looks like a princess, if you don't look at her eye really closely, if you don't know. She smiles brilliantly. “Oh, good evening. How great to see you all here.”

“The pleasure is all ours,” Sam replies. “I hope you are feeling well?”

“Absolutely, Mister Wilson,” Natasha replies. “It's such a wonderful evening. I shall miss all these festivities when I will depart.”

“I'm certain you will attend plenty more balls in your life,” Sharon remarks. “May I say you look just splendid.”

Natasha smiles, brushing over the fabric of her skirts. “I just had to wear this robe before I left. It almost seems like I was saving it for a special occasion just like this.”

“Are you sad you're leaving?” Steve asks.

Natasha tilts her head. “I haven't seen my parents, my brothers in over a year. I think it's time. But I really enjoyed the time I spent here, with all of you.”

“Could we step aside for just a moment?” Sharon asks bluntly. “Excuse us. Please.”

Natasha smiles at people around them while they walk to a more quiet corner. The longer you watch her, the more you know, the more you realize the hypocrisy of it all, the worse it gets. “How is your side?” Sharon asks quietly. “Should you really be wearing a stay already?”

Natasha's smile doesn't change. “Don't worry, my dear Sharon. I saw a doctor and he assured me it would be fine. It's not that tight. I'm more worried about the long coach rides after Friday.”

“But you absolutely need to leave?” Sharon questions.

“Absolutely,” Natasha assures her. “Please, let's talk about something else. How are you in your house? Have you found servants yet?”

“I haven't put an advertisement in the newspaper yet,” Sharon admits. “I thought I might just ask Lily… oh, Lily is a maid at my parents’. It would be perfect if she moved to us, because I already know her and all. But really, it's not all that important right now. I'd need to go over the finances with Steve, of course.”

“I don't think I will be here to see that,” Natasha says. “Sadly. But I am sure you will do it perfectly.”

Sharon snorts. “I'm not sure. I wish someone would have really taught me how to run a household. But my mother doesn't live far away, naturally, I can always ask her.”

“You will do just fine,” Natasha assures her. “Does she still write you daily letters?”

“No, no,” Sharon replies. “But weekly, certainly. More often, actually.”

Natasha smiles. “Hearing you talk about her makes me almost excited to go back to see my family. Of course, it's a long trip, potentially even dangerous. Even if I leave on Friday, it will be at least half a year until I'm back in Saint Petersburg.”

“I wish you a good trip,” Sharon says. “This is the last time we see each other, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Natasha confirms sullenly. “It will be. I will try to send you a letter here and there, but you know, it's across the whole continent.”

“I'd be delighted if it were to arrive,” Sharon remarks. “I'm afraid I can hardly afford that.”

Natasha smiles. “Don't worry about it, my dear Sharon. Come, this is our last evening together, we should be enjoying ourselves.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning- this chapter is basically just smut. If that's not your thing, skip to the next one, you won't miss anything.

It's dark, long since sunset. He climbs off his horse. The gate of the barn is open, which probably means he's at the right place. He's not sure, though. It's so dark. He takes the reins and leads the horse into the barn, heart pounding. This whole thing is very suspect.

It's even darker inside than outside. His horse huffs, dragging its hooves. He shushes it, rubbing the side of its head, calming it down until it's used to the darkness, until it's ready to continue. He leads them into the barn all the way, looking around. Straw. What else was he expecting? There's another horse, nickering for his. There's a flash of red hair, and upon closer inspection, there's a small figure curled up in the straw by the door, almost hidden. He hooks the reins of his horse around the bars of the box, kneeling in front of the sleeping figure, gently shaking her shoulder. She blinks sleepily, hazily, pupils widening with surprise. He pulls his hand back. She yawns, stretching out her legs. She's in a nightshift already, enveloped in a black cloak. He gets up, leading the horse into the box and unsaddling it.

“I didn't think you would come,” she mutters. “I wasn't even sure you would get the letter.”

“I did,” he replies, putting the saddle on the box partition. “But you didn't even specify a time.”

“I didn't,” she mutters, curling up again. “But you're here now.”

“You really came alone?” he asks, closing the box. “You don't even know who's out there.”

She snorts. “It's not that far. This barn is still on our land, after all. I snuck out unnoticed, don't worry.”

“How long have you been here?” he asks, sitting down somewhere in front of a bale of straw. “You're leaving tomorrow. You should be sleeping.”

“I wanted to see you again,” she whispers. “Before I'll be gone forever. I just had to.”

He sighs. He hasn't seen her since almost two weeks ago and she looks better, much better. The left eye is still a bit darker, though, now without makeup. He really shouldn't do this again, after what happened last time. He promised her even. “Neither of us should be here.”

She crawls over, coming to sit in front of him, cloak wrapped around her shoulders. “Shhh. I don't want to think about that right now. I don't want to think about anything right now.”

“But last time, you-” He sighs. “I’m sorry. Really. How are you, now?”

“It's much better,” she assures him. “Don’t worry. They left me alone when I didn't try to leave the house.”

He snorts. “That sounds like prison.”

She smiles, touching his cheek. Her hand is cold. “Doesn't matter now. Let's not talk about it.”

He takes his gloves off, putting her hand between his. “You're cold. You shouldn't be here.”

“It's okay,” she repeats, wrapping the cloak around herself. “How are you? How have you been?”

He sighs. “Oh, you know. No need to talk about it.”

“It's not your fault,” Natasha insists. “Really. I did just as much you did.”

“Yeah, and you paid for it,” he reminds her. “Awfully so. I didn't.”

“It's not fair,” Natasha admits. “But it's not your fault that it's not fair. Let's not talk about this. We can't change anything anyway.”

“I can't think about anything else,” he states. “I haven't thought about anything else for weeks.”

“Oh, dear,” she mutters. “Let me take your mind off things.”

She leans in and kisses him, putting her other hand on his cheek, also cold, and he should stop and he feels awful that he doesn't, she smells of warmth and hay and horse, though that might not be her, of course, and it's so much better than any over the top perfume she ever wore. He holds her right hand between his, even though it's perfectly warm already. Her tongue peaks out and he grabs her head, pulling her closer, their tongues moving against each other until he slips past, exploring her mouth, her smooth teeth, the wrinkled ridge behind them, the rough upside of her tongue and the smooth sides. She moans into his mouth, sending a shudder down his back. This is not good, not at all, but it  _ feels  _ so good, so  _ right _ . Her right hand slips into his hair, holding on and pulling.

She climbs into his lap or he pulls her or both. He remembers how she felt pressed against his thigh, on his horse, but this is worse. He can't touch her waist, just can't, so he rubs over her back gently. Her left hand slips down to his shoulder, fingertips on his neck. She's not cold at all anymore. He couldn't let her go if he had to.

The cloak is woolen, rough and warm. He pulls it up when it slips off her shoulders. She pulls herself closer by his shoulder, her thighs bracketing his waist. He blushes when he realizes her night shift must have slipped up her calves. She sits up, looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he replies, desperately trying not to look, now that he can.

She tilts her head, pecking his lips again, then grabs his collar and starts pulling at the buttons. He groans, head dropping back, eyes closed. “Don't.”

She stops, looking at him. “Are you worried?”

He groans again. “I- I can't. I just can't.”

She sits back, more on his knees now. His eyes slip onto her calves. Stockings, of course, but dear Lord. “Have you ever…”

“No,” he replies immediately. “Never.”

“I want it to be you,” she says. “I don't want it to be this- this guy I barely even know, he gets all of my future already, but the first time, I want to choose, and I choose you.”

He can't do this. He can't. As much as he wants to. “I'm sorry. If anything happened, I couldn't- I couldn't handle it. Not again.”

“Nothing is going to happen,” she assures him. “Nobody saw me coming here. I will be gone tomorrow. There will be no consequences.”

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I can't do this if you're not- if you're not absolutely, completely sure you unequivocally want this.”

“I'm sure,” she replies, hands on her thighs. “Are you?”

He sighs. “No. Not yet.”

She slips closer again, kissing his cheek, down his neck. Slowly. He closes his eyes. She's warm, her chest pressing against him. The cloak falls down on the ground. He carefully reaches for her thighs, feeling his way up to her hips and pulling her up on his lap again. She stops, hissing. “Your side?” he asks with worry.

“One of the ribs,” she replies, rubbing over it. “It's okay. Just a little stab of pain when I move wrong.”

He snorts. “And you're still sure you want to do this?”

“I'll be gone tomorrow,” she reminds him, touching his nose. “It's now or never.”

He sighs, kissing her. “I know. I know.”

“I didn't think you would be so hard to seduce,” she admits. “Do you want me to stop?”

No. He doesn't. He wants to be convinced. He wants to forget that this is a terrible idea and give in. “You really intended this when you came here, didn't you? That's what you wanted when you wrote the letter.”

“I wanted to see you,” she replies. “One last time. And it's fine if that's all it is. But I thought about it and I'm sure that I want it.”

“Don't stop,” he mutters. She leans in again and kisses him, brushing his hair back with her fingers. He discovers his hands are still on her hips. He carefully feels up her thin waist as if she is out of porcelain. The form is just… it scares him. She snorts, lifting her arms to unbutton his coat. He lets her, this time. He wants to touch her. He reaches around to her back, running his hand up and down to her hips again. She bites his lip, opening another button. Oh God, he can't touch her. Is he supposed to undress her? Oh God, he can't do that.

“I love you,” she whispers, slipping her hands under his open coat, rubbing his sides. He pushes his shoulders back and she slips the whole coat off. It's not even cold, but that's probably because of where she is sitting on his lap. And he put her there. Oh God, he should be kicked out right now.

It occurs to him that he should reply, but she is nibbling so passionately on his lower lip, he wouldn't stop her for the world. He slips his hands down to her bottom and almost faints. He can feel everything. There's a couple of layers but he can clearly feel her form, not a dress or a skirt or some padding, just her. Her nimble fingers are unbuttoning his shirt now. He squeezes her against him and she moans. He opens his eyes in surprise. Hers are closed still, biting down on her lower lip, her fingers working tirelessly. He holds her hips and pushes against her again. Her mouth falls open, quiet moan. Oh, he didn't even consider that. That makes it so much harder to say no.

“I don't want you to be cold,” he mutters, wrapping his arms around her. She snorts, pulling his shirt open bit by bit. Well, he's definitely not cold. Eventually, she ends up where his shirt is tucked into his trousers and she is sitting on that, so she has to stop. He shudders when she touches his chest.

His right hand slips around almost by itself, cupping her breast. It's soft. It's so  _ soft _ , resting heavy in his palm. She grabs his neck and kisses him, his hand squeezes her breast automatically, she moans, really, one thing leads to another. He finds the little bud, rubbing it between his fingers. Her head drops back. Good lord, she's beautiful. It still makes his stomach flutter but he really wants to take her clothes off.

He takes the other breast in his left hand. She smiles until he squeezes again, when something enters her face he has never seen but instinctively recognises. If he's not mistaken, there's a slight blush on her cheeks. It's dark though. Her white night shift is easier to see.

“You can take it off,” she mutters, biting her lip because he is rubbing her buds. He doesn't want to, just yet, he wants to make her breathe faster, blush more. It occurs to him that might be easier if he removed the night shift. He tugs at it around her waist where it's tied together and discovers that was the dressing gown, there is still a simpler night shift underneath. She shrugs it off quite easily. He feels up her breasts again, now strikingly warm to his touch, only covered in a layer of silk. He wonders what that cost. Oh, he really shouldn't be thinking about that.

She pulls his arms out of his shirt even though it's still tucked into his trousers. They'll solve that later. Her silky chest brushes against him and he shivers. As much as he hates how wealthy she is, there is an appeal to all the nice things that he can't deny. She sits back and starts untying her leather boots. It's stupid but he is still astonished that she has legs, of course she does, but he must have assumed she either floated or devolved into a broad block down from her waist. Somehow, it makes her hips so much more appealing, even though her waist scares him that he might break her.

She almost falls off when she pulls off her boot and he grabs her shoulders to steady her. She looks up and his hands slip down her decolleté, and he realizes he may have touched her before, but not her  _ skin,  _ and his heart thumps in his ears as he unties with shaky fingers the knot on the front of her night shift. She bites her lip, looking down. The knot comes undone and he pulls on the neckline until it's wide enough to slide over her shoulders.

She catches it before it slips down too far, chewing on her lip. He pulls his hands back. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she replies, not looking up. “I just- can I keep that on a little longer?”

“You don't have to do anything,” he replies, pulling the night shift over her shoulders again but not tying it. “What do you want to do?”

She snorts. “I would probably be more comfortable if you were wearing less.”

“I should get up for that,” he states, lifting her slightly by her hips. He doesn't want to move her too much for fear of hurting her again.

She puts one foot down, pushing herself up from that knee so she can keep her middle mostly straight. Her night shift reaches down to her calves again. She wraps her arms around herself, walking over to look at their horses, probably ruining her silk stockings. He peels off his boots, steadying himself on the bale of straw. She smiles at him over her shoulder. He walks behind her while she turns her head back, wrapping his arms around her from behind. She shivers, probably from his hips pressing up against her. He feels it, too. He pushes her hair out of the way, kissing her neck. She sighs, letting her head drop back. “I'm scared,” she admits quietly.

“That's okay,” he mutters, continuing to kiss her neck. “Just say it.”

She shivers again, bumping back against his thighs. There's a smell coming from her, he thinks, that he can't identify. He nibbles on her pale skin. She clutches onto the box partition, breathing deeply. He turns her around by her arms. She looks at him with wide eyes. Oh, yes, he was right, it's exactly that face from before. His stomach jumps.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks uncomfortably.

“You smell,” he replies, letting go of her arms. “Not bad. Good. I don't know, it's… something.”

She blushes. “That's… I'm just wearing this gown, and the stockings. And nothing else.”

Oh. Oh God. “Can I take it off?”

She shivers again. “You need to take something off yourself first, I think.”

He unbuckles his belt. “Do you want to do it?”

She takes the belt, pulling it open hesitantly. Her fingers brush against the skin of his abdomen. She pops the buttons, breathing out before pushing it all down. He ponders for a second whether to tell her and then it's too late, she throws herself against his chest, hugging him, eyes shut tightly. “I didn't mean to- not  _ all _ of it.”

He strokes her hair, wishing he weren't poking against her stomach. Her breathing slows. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she breathes. “I don't know why- I shouldn't have startled like that.”

He leads her back to the bales of straw, leaning her against one of them, kissing her. She runs her hands all over his torso, then down to where his pants are stuck. They drop to the ground and he steps out, kicking them to the side. She opens her eyes. “Okay. You can take it off now.”

He bunches the silk up around her hips, taking in more and more until it rides up over her stockings. He gapes at her thighs. He's never seen- She closes her eyes again. He shakes his head to clear it, pulling the silk shift over her hips, then over her breasts and over her head. She slips it off her arms herself, hanging it on the bale of straw, and she's naked except for the stockings, nervously crossing her arms in front of her chest. He kisses her, he has to, she's so vulnerable and beautiful and perfect. Her buds touch his chest, harder than before. She loosens her arms, finally settling her hands on his shoulders. She sighs when he pulls back. “I was kind of worried you would be- disappointed.”

“Are you kidding,” he remarks, nibbling on her neck again because she seems to like it. “No man would ever be disappointed when seeing a woman without her clothes. Especially one he has no business seeing, and especially you.”

“But usually it's-” She sighs again. “All this padding and lacing and the tight corset, and clearly one has to fit one's body to the expectations, and- I wasn't sure what you had imagined.”

He snorts with amusement. “You really think if you take your clothes off, I'm somehow going to _complain_?”

She snorts. “Fair. But- I don't know.”

“You're not the volume of your breasts,” he adds. “Or the ratio of your waist to your hips. And I love you.”

She shivers. “Let's- let's lay down.”

They spread out the woolen cloak on the floor and she carefully lowers her back on it. He kneels in front of her, suddenly very nervous. “Are you still sure? What if- what if your fiancé finds out you're not a- not a virgin?”

“How would he find that out?” she asks back. “When we consummate our marriage? I can't imagine he would notice, and if he did, it would not be in his interest to say anything, and if he did, I don't think many people would believe him, with my family behind me.”

He sighs. It's so complicated, her calculations. He pushes her hair out of her face, leaning down to kiss her. She plants her feet on the floor. “Do you know what you're supposed to do?”

“Vaguely,” he admits, raking his eyes over her body.

“I heard-” She sighs, raising her eyes to the roof so she doesn't have to look at him. “A Frenchman once told me you're supposed to do something with your mouth first. Down- Downstairs. I couldn't get more out of him.”

“With my mouth,” he repeats. “I have no clue how to do that.”

“Forget it,” she hurries to say. “Kiss me. Please.”

He does, of course. Anything she asks. Her knees drop apart and he slips between them almost naturally. She's so warm. She sighs when his lips wander down her neck. “I thought, because you're in the army, that maybe you had seen a… public woman, once or twice.”

He snorts. “Do you have any idea what that costs?” He realizes his mistake when he sees the amusement on her face. “And I wouldn't do that, of course.”

“What does it cost, though?” she asks, intrigued. “I'm curious.”

“No clue,” he admits. “Never asked. I would imagine it's expensive, though.”

“I think the first time would be,” she muses. “The first time ruins everything. After that, it's a bit of a wash. It's like- like staining a dress. The first stain ruins it and after that, you'll have to throw it away anyway, so one stain, three stains, doesn't matter.”

“And you're sure you want to ruin the dress?” he asks again.

“Yeah,” she replies. “You know, if I can sneak into marriage with that stained dress, and then all the other stains come to it, those that are supposed to be there, then nobody will notice. So it doesn't matter.”

“I'd have preferred not to stain the dress at all,” he says. “Any dress that I'm not supposed to stain. You know what I mean.”

“You'd know what to do, though,” she remarks, spreading her legs even further. “So, there's that.”

“I'll manage,” he assures her. He's pretty sure he's lying. He puts a hand between them, pushing his hips forward. He would have thought she'd be wetter. She bites her lip as if preparing for a blow, slipping a hand down herself, and when he pushes his hips forward now, against the resistance, the tip slips in and she suddenly envelops him and oh, that's where all the wet is. Bloody hell. Jesus Christ. She's still staring up, looking worried. “Are you okay?”

“Just do it,” she whispers. He pushes his hips forward. It's easier now, with less resistance. It's tight, still. He might just faint if he doesn't stop. She bites her lip again. He stops and leans up to kiss her. “Hurts?”

“Just a little,” she replies. “You need to- push harder.”

“I know.” Now that he is where he is supposed to be, it's pretty much instinct. It's kind of scary. “Just checking in with you first.”

She nods, breathing in deeply. He pushes his hips forward again, not stopping this time. She bites her lip. It's not enough. He steadies himself, then slams into her, causing her to shriek. He catches it with his lips. She's blinking dazedly. Good lord, now he is all the way inside her, and she is still so goddamn tight. “Are you okay?”

“I thought it would be worse,” she whispers. “Just don't move.”

He snorts. It's hard. He wants to, desperately. His hips pull back a little. “You're not regretting this?”

“Bloody hell,” she hisses. “Stop asking me stuff. I'm nervous as hell.”

He grins, nibbling on her neck again. Oh God, move, for God's sake, just  _ move. _ “I'm asking only because I'm nervous as well.”

“Just do it,” she mutters. “I can feel that you want to.”

He pulls back a little more, then pushes in again. Oh God, she's wet and smooth, but still rubs against him that it's almost too much. She sighs quietly. He leans forward to kiss her, his hips moving back and forth faster. It's a relief in the moment, but the next he already needs more, faster, deeper. She moans when he bottoms out. He groans, pressing his forehead against hers. “Not gonna do this for long.”

She doesn't say anything, fast, shallow breathing. He moves back until he's almost slipping out of her, then pushes into her again. Her eyes are closed, mouth hanging open. There must be some finesse to this, something that you figure out if you do it three, five, ten times, but they don't have that luxury, they have to make do with the first try. Her thighs squeeze his hips and he kisses her again, because she probably enjoys that more than what he clumsily does down there. He at least knows how to kiss her. She hisses suddenly and he stops. “Rib. My rib.”

He can't stop. He's frozen just at the prospect of having to. Thinking that he couldn't finish this- She blushes. “Could we maybe turn around?”

His brain is bust. “How? How exactly?”

She nudges his chest until he slips out of her, which his body claims is the worst thing ever, then pushes him down on the cloak, climbing above him. It's best if she does the moving, but dear God, seeing her like this above him…

She kisses him shyly, reaching between them and leading him into her with squirmish fingers. He slips in easier this time, because she is wider, but also because he is all slicked up now. And he's deeper inside of her. She sighs, brushing back a few strands of hair that have escaped the braid. He waits until she moves. Oh God, he can stare at her chest while she moves. But his eyes fall closed pretty much immediately. She leans forward without stopping her movements, whispering something next to his ear that he really can't understand. Doesn't sound French. Must be Russian. It sounds soft.

He resolves not to ask her how her rib is doing. She'll do something about it if it hurts. It's not ideal because her movements are small, probably for that exact reason. He holds her hips, holding her in place, and pushes deep into her. She moans again.

It's just too much. His resolve is thinning, slipping away. He rocks up into her, trying to be careful, not really succeeding. Her hands end up on his chest and her whispering has stopped but the halting breaths are just as appealing. Oh no. He gives up, thrusting into her twice before stilling while all blood is seemingly draining from his body. She hugs herself to him while he is still twitching inside of her. He's so warm. So bloody warm. Boiling.

She sighs, breath brushing over his chest, not letting go. He presses her to him, rolling them both onto their side so he can pull part of the cloak over them. He's not cold, not even naked in the November air, sweating actually, but she should keep warm. He'd regret if she even got a cold from this. Not that he would know. He tugs her against him and she nestles herself against his warm chest.

She looks pretty happy, given that he kind of screwed it up. He'd die to still be inside of her. He sighs. No point in beating around the bush. “You didn't… go off, did you?”

She snorts with amusement, not opening her eyes. “Is that how you say it in English? Like a gun?”

“Plenty of ways to say it,” he replies, face heating up. “That's just one that seemed less vulgar.”

“I can say it in French,” she tells him, stretching her legs. “And in Russian, of course.”

He snorts. “Well, how do you say it in French? And how would you even know that?”

“ _ Jouir _ ,” she replies, and it sounds… intense. “You wouldn't believe the novels they let me read. Not that they were helpful in this case, it was always more insinuation than information.”

“Was your Frenchman actually a book?” he asks with amusement.

She snorts, pressing her face to his chest. “I've never seen a grown man naked before. I vaguely recall my brothers, when we were all children. And classical statues of course, but those are… look, when I saw your… I thought I was going to die.”

He grins. “Well, you didn't. Why, what is it with those statues?”

“Greek and Roman statues, they have a lot smaller…” She sighs. “I thought that was normal.”

“How small?” he probes, not having a clue. Has he ever even seen a naked statue like that?

She groans, hiding her face in his chest but measuring some distance between her fingers, maybe two inches or even just one. He snorts. “Yeah, no, that's definitely not normal.”

“I feel more prepared now,” she states, and he sobers up instantly when he realizes she means for consummating her marriage with her future husband.

It's getting cold and he pulls the other side of the cloak over them as well, holding them together in the middle as good as he can. “We should probably get dressed,” she mutters. “But don't worry. I still have a little time.”

He sighs. Should let her go. Can't. Don't want to. “Do you ever wonder whether your parents were actually in love?” she asks. “Because they made children. Or did they just do what was expected of them?”

“Mine were,” he replies, matter-of-fact. “They were both too poor to have other considerations when marrying. And they shared their faith, their dream of a better life, which led them on a ship where they both drowned.”

“I really wonder about mine,” she muses. “Because it's such a perfectly proper match between them, and my mother is so ambitious and all, and all of that would point to- But then they had  _ four  _ children. You know, the heir, the spare… but then still two more. I can't imagine my father asking for more than two sons. Maybe they actually wanted to, you know. Maybe they enjoyed their marriage.”

“Maybe only one of them did,” he suggests sullenly. “And the children were just a byproduct.”

“Yes,” she concedes. “Yes. Maybe. Do you think one can fall in love with anyone?”

He snorts. He can't even imagine finding another woman beautiful again. “No. Don't think so.”

“I think you can,” she suggests. “If you try to find all the good things in them. Maybe it helps if your whole life depends on someone.”

He shudders. He so goddamn wishes she wouldn't bring that up again and again. “Again, that sounds more like prison.”

“That's what it is,” she replies, matter-of-fact. “Don't worry about me. I will be happy. If I fall in love with him, maybe we'll also have four children.”

He doesn't want to rain on her parade but he is almost sure her fiancé is the evilest creature to ever tread this earth. She looks up at the roof. “You know, maybe my mother actually just really wanted to have a daughter.”

“Then I hope she is nice to you,” he remarks. “A hell of a lot nicer than your aunt.”

She ignores him. She always ignores what doesn't fit, what has the potential to rip a hole in the way her life is supposed to be. “Do you worry about not bearing sons?” he asks, resigning to the topic at hand.

“No, no,” she dismisses. “I will have sons. Two sons and one daughter. Don't worry.”

That is apparently also something she ignores. He sighs. “Did you just do all of this for preparation?”

She snorts, insulted. “What the hell do you think? That I take all of this risk upon me just in  _ preparation _ ?”

“So there is risk,” he remarks dryly. “Jesus Christ, if anything happens because of this…”

She huffs angrily, pushing his arms away and getting up. “Oh, it's all about you. Of course.”

“Are you kidding,” he replies incredulously. “I only care about you. I love you.”

“That's nice,” she remarks, pulling her chemise over her head again. “But it doesn't matter.”

He flattens. “It does, to me. It's why all of this is so hard.”

She smiles, wrapping herself in her dressing gown. “Don't worry. I'm sure next spring you will fall in love with someone new. You just have to get through the winter.”

He sighs. He's pretty sure he won't, but he always thinks that. Then again, it feels a lot worse this time. “And you'll marry and have your three to four children and be rich and happy.”

“Exactly.” He realizes she has straw in her hair. Dear Lord, he can't let her go. “We'll be fine. We'll both keep very nice memories of each other but that's all it's going to be, memories.”

“Did you even enjoy this?” he asks. “Not the whole thing, just this. Tonight.”

She smiles. “Oh, I did. Even though I didn't ignite. No, what was the word?”

He snorts, sitting up. “I wish I could do it again. Do it better.”

“I'm sorry,” she replies. “But don't worry. I'm not disappointed.”

“You thought I was going to rip you apart,” he remarks, grabbing his trousers. “If that's your expectation, it's pretty easy to do better than that.”

She snorts, opening her braid. He stands up to put the trousers on. She smiles, walking up to him to stroke his cheek. “I'm so glad you came. I'm so glad we got to do this.”

He fixes his belt so he can run his fingers through her open hair. It's rustled, with straw sticking out in a few places, but smooth and soft. He picks out the haulms that aren't supposed to be there.

She turns her back to him. “Can you do a braid?”

He snorts, combing through her hair with his fingers. “I can't braid.”

She rolls her eyes in amusement. “Oh, men. You probably can't knit, embroider or crochet either, can you?”

“I do darn my own clothes,” he offers, watching her skilled fingers in fascination. “And I bet you have servants to do that for you.”

She snorts, already tying a ribbon to finish the braid. “Of course. It's a hassle. You should get married.”

He snorts. “My shirt should be somewhere around here, shouldn't it?”

She picks it up with the toes of a stocking-clad foot, raising the leg in a dancer's fashion, picking the shirt off her foot. He blushes, taking it. “That's- that's another way to say it. To lift your leg.”

She turns around. “My God. I sneak out at night, the night before I leave, to roll with you through the hay, and you have the nerve to ask for more? Unbelievable.”

“I'm not asking for anything,” he defends, buttoning up. “I was just teaching you new words.”

“I'm never going to need  _ that _ ,” she returns, picking up her boots and leaning on the bale of straw to steady herself. “I won't mix with you dirty soldiers anymore so you can tell me what you'd really like me to do.”

“Stevie and I were always perfectly respectful towards you,” he claims. “Stevie more than me, of course.”

She snorts. “Well, you learnt all that dirty stuff somewhere and I don't think it was from French romantic novels.”

“You make it sound like I can't read,” he complains.

“You're just trying to distract from the decidedly impolite company you keep,” she returns. “No offense to Mr. and Mrs. Rogers, of course, and to Mr. Wilson.”

He grins. “I don't care if you insult Sam a little.”

She ties up the second boot, then fetches the cloak from the ground, shaking it out. “You know I'm leaving tomorrow. And there's nothing I can do. And I shouldn't either.”

He catches her wrist. “Yeah. I know.”

They kiss, seemingly forever and still not long enough, and then they both saddle their horses and ride away into the darkness.


	21. Chapter 21

Sharon turns out to be pregnant only two months after Natalia left, almost as if she was holding out that long. Which she was, as Steve tells him. Sam and Barton work out a circus program that's going to be all the rage next year, as they assure everyone repeatedly, prominently featuring Sam's greatest treasure, the Shetland pony whose name Bucky just can't care to remember.

Unfortunately, in February, France declares war on Britain and though neither Steve nor Bucky get deployed yet, they know it's going to be sooner rather than later. Sam vows to take care of Sharon faithfully and to be a great godfather, effectively snatching away the only thing Bucky was still looking forward to. Sharon, however, thinks she should come to the continent with them, as the Captain's wife, and they all argue about that for weeks while waiting for the letter to arrive.

Their little garden blooms beautifully in April and Steve has his hands full because he won't let Sharon do anything useful. And because he has to spend hours at the regiment strategizing troop movements and training and weaponry. Right now, he is harking a little crop patch in their backyard, wiping sweat off of his forehead. “Oh, Bucky. I hope you came here to help me?”

“Nope, Stevie, I actually just wanted to see your lovely wife,” Bucky replies without remorse. “Did you lock her up again?”

“I never  _ locked her up _ ,” Steve complains, shoving the spade into the ground again. “I just explained to her that I think it would be better if she didn't go outside for that long, because it's still rather fresh outside, and that if she watched me work in the garden, she would become upset she can't do it herself, and-”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you just talked her ears off until she gave in.”

Steve pouts. “That's not fair. Fine, ask her if she needs anything.”

“Will do,” Bucky replies, pushing the door of the house open. Lily peeks down the stairs. “Oh, Mister Barnes. Mrs. Rogers is in the dining room and Captain Rogers is in the garden.”

“Thank you,” Bucky replies smiling, even though he already knows. Maybe he likes Lily a little too much.

Sharon calls him in only a second after he knocks on the door. She is sitting by the window, fairly round already, watching Steve outside while crocheting rather half-heartedly. “Oh, Bucky. I hope you didn't try to steal my housekeeper again.”

“I didn't try to steal her,” Bucky complains, pulling up a chair. “How old is she even?”

“17,” Sharon replies. “Still no.”

He snorts. “Okay, okay. How are you? Steve said I should ask you if you need anything.”

Sharon rolls her eyes, putting the wool down. “He only asked twenty minutes ago. Tell him if he asks again, I'll go out and hit him with the spade.”

“Gladly, as soon as I leave,” Bucky replies. “How are you yourself, though?”

Sharon grabs a handful of already cracked hazelnuts. “I'm so hungry. Yesterday, I had Steve running through the whole town looking for blueberry cake. There was not a single slice in the whole town, can you believe it? So I ate pure gravy instead, just spoon after spoon.”

“Not the season for blueberries, I'm afraid” Bucky remarks. “But you don't look like you're starving.”

Sharon snorts, rubbing her belly. “I'm about five months pregnant. Which just means I have four months to get even fatter.”

“Could be worse,” Bucky comments. “I mean, you're literally eating for two.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Sharon replies. “What about you, though? It's been five months.”

Bucky sighs. “I just- I still miss her. I think about her every day.”

“I miss her too,” Sharon adds. “I tried to pick up Ancient Greek again, now that I can't do much else anyway, but it's not the same without her.”

“She was so smart,” Bucky remarks. “And so awfully educated.”

Sharon snorts. “Yeah. She couldn't just read Latin and Ancient Greek, but also French and Italian and even German. She's probably somewhere there now, in the middle of the continent.”

“Hopefully nowhere where they're fighting,” he adds. “Can I ask you something? It's really inappropriate but you're the only one I can talk to about it, and I just can't get it off my mind.”

Sharon looks very intrigued. “That sounds grave. I'm listening.”

Bucky sighs. “Well, first I have to tell you something. Last November, those two weeks before she left, when I promised not to see her again… she sent me another letter directly. She must have bribed a servant or something. That was Thursday, the day before she left.”

“Okay.” Sharon's eyebrows furrow together in concentration. “Do you still have the letter?”

“No, I burnt it, it's not about the letter,” Bucky explains. “It wasn't long. It just said that there was a barn two miles south of their mansion, and to meet her there that night.”

“Oh my God,” Sharon repeats. “She told you to meet her alone in a barn the night before she left?”

Bucky sighs. “Yes.”

“And you went there, to that barn,” Sharon adds. “And she was actually there.”

“Yes.”

“And then you spent the night together, in that barn,” Sharon continues. “Alone.”

“Yes.”

“And you-”

Bucky blushes. “Yes.”

“Jesus Christ.” Sharon grabs another handful of hazelnuts. “I didn't know that. I saw her carriage the next morning, when she left with her burly coachman. I don't know if she saw me waving. And you were with her, the night before.”

“You don't have to repeat it a million times,” Bucky complains. “Yes. I know I shouldn't have.”

Sharon sighs. “Look, she left. That's the only thing that matters. And of course you're supposed to, but I really don't think  _ everyone  _ waits until they're married. So, no judgement from me.”

“You waited,” Bucky remarks.

Sharon snorts. “Because Steve is such goody two-shoes. And because we knew we would get to soon enough. And look, here I am, round like an apple.”

“I didn't want to tell Steve,” Bucky admits.

“But what is your inappropriate question?” Sharon asks. “I really want to know.”

Bucky sighs. “When we were… you know, she said she had heard, from someone, that I was supposed to do something with my mouth. Down there.”

Sharon blushes immediately, grabbing a fan. “Oh my. Oh. With your mouth.”

“We both weren't sure how that was supposed to work, so we dropped it,” Bucky hurries to say. “And I just keep wondering. Have you ever heard of that?”

“No, never,” Sharon replies, still fanning herself. “But I think I can imagine. Oh, good God, it’s so warm in here, I should open a window. No, I shouldn't. I'll- I'll try to explain.”

Bucky leans forward. “Okay.”

“Down there, there's a little… spot,” Sharon starts uncomfortably. “Like a bud. Outside, not inside, a little to the front of you know where. And if you rub over that, very carefully, because it's so sensitive, that… that can make a woman feel very, very good. Did you understand any of that?”

“I think so.” She's not the only one who's uncomfortable. “And you're supposed to do that but with your mouth?”

“I imagine,” Sharon confirms. “If you were to… to kiss, or even nibble, that sounds incredibly pleasant.”

He tilts his head. “Stevie is doing a good job, isn't he?”

Sharon blushes even more. “Shut up. I'll tell him, though, about the mouth thing. Maybe he could do even better.”

Bucky sighs. “I don't think I did a good job, that one time. And that's why I keep thinking about that. Maybe she would have liked it. Maybe I should have tried.”

“Oh, Bucky, that always takes time to figure out,” Sharon replies. “That's what honeymoons are for. You can't expect it to sail smoothly the very first time. You wouldn't expect the first shot someone fires to be perfect.”

“Could've been better, though,” Bucky remarks. “I mean, I can't change it anymore. I just wish it would have been a little different.”

“Don't beat yourself up about it,” Sharon advises. “I don't think she expected that from you.”

Bucky snorts. “Well, thank you for explaining, you really shouldn't have. But I mean, maybe you benefit from it now, so… just don't tell Steve you had that from me.”

“Are you crazy,” Sharon replies. “Of course not. And we can see about that when I no longer look and feel like a sack of flour.”

 

They're still there in August, when Sharon gives birth to a little son who, frankly, looks like an angry crumpled potato at first but everyone acts like it's the cutest baby ever. Because Sam already gets to be his godfather, for unspoken reasons, they name him James. Little James Rogers.

Sharon's mother has another breakdown because she is a grandmother now, and the baby is so cute, and his tiny fingers are so strong already, and his head is so round-

She actually says that. Bucky knows he should be happy for them, and he is, really, but he also pities himself so much. He'll never be happy like this. He'll never have this. Steve will forever look at him and just know that he is still pining after Natalia, the greatest person he has ever met. And unless Steve gets shot on the other side of the canal, he and Sharon will have a dozen children and live happily ever after.

As if on cue, Steve receives his deployment orders the next month, to Toulon. Sharon cries for days, no matter how often Steve tells her he won't be on the frontlines (Bucky is pretty sure he's lying). Finally, he ships out with a heavy heart, leaving behind his young wife and son.

Bucky also stays behind, because no one asks him to go (he'd really be okay with the frontline), instead training ever new poor devils who have never ever held a sword or a gun. It's depressing, looking at them and knowing that most of them will be dead soon, ending as canon fodder.

Steve writes a letter in November, pretty much just that he is still alive and well and so sorry for missing all this time with his son. Sharon does a ridiculous happy dance. Little James gapes at her with his huge blue eyes. Bucky spends too much time at her house and people have started talking, but people always talk. Still, he worries that Little James might start to see him as his father and tries to spend more time with Sam instead.

In December, Sharon gets a long, sealed letter and instantly worries that Steve is dead, but Bucky recognizes the seal and has to run outside to calm himself. She said she would write. He shouldn't make such a big fuss about it. He realizes that he had actually pretended she was dead, because that was easier for him.

Sharon tells him that Natalia fell sick somewhere around Germany, while she was traveling, and had to stay there for a while, but that she is better now and will depart soon. Written in August. And then there's a sealed letter folded into the sealed letter that Sharon is to give to him, if he is still there and alive, and if not, to burn it without opening it under any circumstances.

He takes it home and opens it there. Probably just cravenness. He eats and drinks too much wine and then breaks the seal.

 

_ 28th of August, Magdeburg _

 

_ My dearest James, _

_ I really don't know if this letter will ever reach you. I'm not sure they still deliver letters to England, with the war raging on. Maybe you have been deployed already. Maybe I'm writing to a dead man. _

_ Assuming that this letter reaches you, against all the odds, I hope it reaches you in good health and happiness. I hope you have moved on. There is, however, a reason why I am writing to you. _

_ I trust Sharon won't open this letter (bless her heart), and thus I can admit I did not tell her the truth. I did not fall sick, even though I assumed so in February. Vanya took me to a doctor and it turns out my condition is quite different. It was decided I would stay here and a letter would be written to my family that I had caught an illness but would most likely recover and return to Saint Petersburg before the start of winter. Vanya found an apartment for us that I have hardly left since. _

_ I know I promised you there wouldn't be consequences to our night in that barn, I truly thought so, but ten days ago, I gave birth to a wonderful little girl. It wasn't an easy birth and I still haven't recovered fully, though the doctor assures me I will. Vanya took the baby away while I was asleep. He swore up and down, by his honour, his life, his loyalty to my family, by the almighty God that she is in good hands. I have no way of knowing. _

_ Excuse me, I had to stop writing because I was crying so much. I will never see her again. I don't know what I hope for in writing you the truth, I truly don't know. I just want you to know. _

_ Her name is Ekatarina, or Katharina or Catherine. Vanya assures me he told her new parents. They are, according to him, a carpenter, not wealthy but not poor either, and a wife still in confinement after childbirth. He wouldn't tell me more because he fears I will go out and look for her, so this is all I can tell you. I hope they take good care of her and she leads a modest, happy life. _

_ My life moves forward inexorably, beyond my control. I know I have to continue my travel. I know it is best for me if I forget my little Katya. I still cry at night when I wake up and she is not there. Excuse me, my hand is shaking too much. _

_ I have to assume you never receive this letter. If you do, however, I want you to know that you have a beautiful little daughter, somewhere here around Magdeburg, with dark hair and blue eyes, and that she has new parents who hopefully care for her as well as anyone ever could. I hope you understand that I still have to leave. _

_ I've loved you, and I love Katya with all my heart, but this has to end. I cannot cry forever. Maybe you are already dead, and maybe Katya is- I cannot even bear to write it. I have to look ahead and move ahead, no matter how much it pains me. This letter is thus my final goodbye, to you and to Katya. _

_ I wish you all the best. Maybe you have taken everyone's advice and finally married. Maybe you have a little Catherine underway yourself already. Whatever you do, I hope you are happy. You promised me to try. _

_ I will leave in a few weeks, as soon as my health allows it. I am not happy here in this apartment and Vanya knows it. As soon as I leave, all of this will be behind me. I regret that, but I also look ahead. _

_ With all my love and kisses, _

_ Natalia _


	22. Chapter 22

“What do you mean?” Sharon repeats. “You can't just leave the regiment. They're going to war.”

“Can, and will,” Bucky replies, trying to fold the blanket so it will fit in his suitcase. “My letter of resignation is right over there.”

Sharon turns around incredulously and picks up the piece of paper, snorting while reading. “Health issues?”

“I lied,” Bucky admits freely. “Wasn’t sure  _ personal matters  _ would cut it.”

Sharon throws the paper down. “For God's sake, Sam, say something.”

“What?” Sam asks. “I think he's right.”

Sharon rolls her eyes. “He's going to get himself  _ killed _ .”

“If he stays here and they deploy him somewhere, that might be the case just as well,” Sam reminds her. “You know, Steve is also over there.”

“ _ Stop  _ reminding me,” Sharon complains, spinning around again. “You know this is very dangerous.”

“Jesus Christ, just read the letter,” Bucky sighs, going looking for the paper. “Read it and tell me again that I shouldn't go.”

Sharon crosses her arms stubbornly. “You already told me that you want to go look for your daughter. That doesn't make it a good idea.”

“I don't even know how she is doing,” Bucky complains. “She's born in August. It's  _ December _ .”

“How are you going to find her?” Sharon probes. “You hardly know anything about her stepparents. Maybe they moved. Maybe this Ivan was just lying. And what if you find them? It's their child now. What do you even want?”

“I want to be sure she is fine,” Bucky replies. “And if she's not, I'll make sure she is.”

Sharon snorts. “And if she's fine? You're just going to come back?”

“Hello, little Jim,” Sam whispers, picking up the baby from the table. “They're not fighting. Don't worry.”

Bucky sighs, pulling out the letter with the broken seal. It even smells nice. “Here. Just read it.”

Sharon acquiesces, taking the letter and skimming over it. Little James is absolutely fascinated with Sam's finger. Bucky goes back to packing.

Sharon gasps. “He took the baby  _ while she was sleeping _ ?”

“Shhhhh,” Sam says. “Doodoodoo.”

“For God's sake, stop talking like that, Wilson, you're not the baby,” Bucky complains. “I know, it's awful.”

“I can't believe this,” Sharon mutters, reading on intensely. “I thought he was… I thought he cared about her.”

Bucky sighs, saying nothing. Sam dangles his watch in front of Little James who tries to grab it so hard Sam has to clutch onto him. Sharon is absolutely absorbed by the letter, not noticing her son almost falling. “Oh my God. She doesn't even know- Oh my God.”

“That's right, mummy's upset,” Sam mutters, rocking the baby in his arms. “Let's walk a bit, shall we?”

Bucky shakes his head but Sam hands him Little James anyway. He's still so small, at half a year. Such big eyes staring at him. “Okay, I get why you want to go,” Sharon says, lowering the letter. Sam sneaks it out of her hand to read it as well. “But what are you going to do? You need some sort of plan.”

Little James starts whining. Bucky looks down in irritation, too much at once. “I just- I don't know. Why is he crying?”

“Hungry, maybe,” Sharon suggests, opening her arms. “Come here, my dear. Are you hungry?”

Bucky hands her the baby and she turns the chair around so she can feed him discreetly. She sighs. “No, really. Let's assume she's with that family, raised as their child- do you really want to take her away from her family?”

Bucky sighs. “I really don't know. I'll have to see how she's doing. I can decide then. And I'll have plenty of time to think about that on the way.”

Sam snorts about something. Bucky gives him an irritated look. “I just, if you go, I don't know if you'll ever come back,” Sharon says. “And then we'll never see you again.”

It's weird, talking to her back. “As Sam said, I get deployed, I die, that's just the same.”

Sharon snorts. “You know, what really worries me is how  _ blasé _ you're about that.”

Bucky shrugs. “I’m not trying to. I just want to see my daughter. After that, I'll see.”

“I still can't believe you have a daughter,” Sam remarks. “I really hope she comes after her mother and not at all after you.”

“The problem is just that there's not necessarily a way back,” Sharon remarks. “If she's not in a good place, God forbid, and you have to take her, you can't take her here. You can't just show up with a small child. So, you'll have to stay somewhere else, raising her all alone, without a mother. And that's going to be your entire life.”

“Says the woman currently nursing her son,” Sam returns. “If he wants that, just let him.”

Sharon sighs. “Of course. But he doesn't know what he wants. He's just making this hugely consequential decision on the fly, without really considering possible outcomes.”

“That's just how he got a daughter in the first place,” Sam argues. “So, it's going to be fine. He’s dumb but he'll work it out.”

“You do know I can hear you,” Bucky remarks.

Sharon snorts, buttoning up again. “I'd really like to have some of your optimism, Sam. So, Bucky, you really want to spend the rest of your life looking after a child?”

“That sounds a lot better than what I'm doing now,” Bucky remarks. “And it's not the rest of my life. Twenty years, tops. And it's not like a 19 year old, like you, needs a lot of supervision.”

“He can get a governess,” Sam suggests. “He can make up a story about where the child comes from and where the mother went. Of course, he's never going to marry because he has been spoilt by a certain almost-Duchess.”

Bucky snorts. “Stop pressuring me. How about you start looking for a wife, huh?”

“Not into that at the moment,” Sam replies calmly. “Look, Steve married and had a child, you didn't marry but also had a child, and I didn't marry and didn't have a child. That's just a beautiful range of options.”

“Except that we need someone who marries but doesn't have children,” Sharon remarks, turning back around. “I should go home, it's time for James’ nap. Please, Bucky, just think it over again. Sleep over it. And if you resign tomorrow, you need to come to my house and tell me you're leaving me all alone.”

Bucky snorts. “All alone. Even if Steve doesn't come back, you have Lily, Sam, your mother, your aunt Maria, your uncle Fury, your sister is not out of the world either and as far as I remember, Stark already agreed to support you financially should the need arise. You'll be fine.”

“I'm going to miss you, though,” Sharon remarks, getting up and balancing the baby on her hip. “Really, think about it. It's going to upend your life.”

“His life is sad, it's okay if it gets upended,” Sam replies, kissing her cheeks. “Take care getting home.”

“I'll decide tomorrow,” Bucky promises. “But I'm going to continue packing. And of course I wouldn't leave without saying goodbye.”

“I should hope so.” Sharon kisses his cheeks, then rocks the baby in his direction. “Say goodbye to Bucky, James.”

The baby looks at him and makes a noise like  _ ngaaaaa _ . It's okay, for a six month old. Bucky pats his head and then Sharon and Little James leave.

“You know, the funniest thing about this letter is that she assumes you might be married already,” Sam remarks as soon as the door falls closed. “When you've been nothing but moping all year.”

Bucky snorts. “Are you just trying to get rid of me, is that it?”

“I also worry about you, actually,” Sam replies. “You haven't had a crush all year, Sharon's housekeeper doesn't count, and for you, that's really a bad sign. So, for God's sake, do something with your life. A goal and a little responsibility wouldn't hurt you either.”

“Because I was so responsible last time,” Bucky remarks dryly. “And that ended so well.”

Sam snorts. “Well, then you can do better this time. That of course doesn't make your previous screw-up undone. And I don't know what's going on in your head, but just so we're clear, she's definitely not there any more. She's most likely already back in Russia and married. You're never going to see her again.”

“I'm well aware,” Bucky returns sourly. “It's not about her. It's only about the child. Natalia is basically dead to me.”

“You're such a liar,” Sam chides. “Fine, whatever, you'll see. The change of scenery would certainly do you good. But, as Sharon said, that's a one-way ticket.”

“You're going to miss me when I'm gone,” Bucky predicts. “Then you'll realize ponys just don't make you happy, but then it'll already be too late.”

Sam snorts. “Please. I know over a dozen people who are still here and a hell of a lot nicer than you.”

 

Steve finally makes it home at the end of 1797. Sharon screams when she sees him. The now four year old James barely gets to hug the father he never knew before he gets pushed into Lily's arms and Steve gets dragged up the stairs.

“You're such an idiot,” Sharon hisses, already peeling off his coat. “You were gone for  _ four years. _ ”

“I tried to write,” Steve defends. “Come on, I want to see my son. He's so big already.”

Sharon snorts, pulling the bedroom door closed. “You can see our son when I'm done with you. Now take off your bloody clothes.”

“What's going on with you?” Steve asks with amusement, unbuttoning his shirt. “This is worse than the time you turned to me and said you wanted a child  _ right now. _ ”

“He's downstairs,” Sharon reminds him, her head disappearing in her dress. “I don't care about children right now, I just want you.”

“Let me kiss you,” Steve demands, cupping her face as soon as it shows up. “God, you're so beautiful. How are you? How have you been?”

“Horny as fuck,” Sharon replies bluntly, tugging up her chemise and leaning back on the dresser. “Now get on with it.”

“How's Bucky?” Steve asks, cupping her breasts way too gently. “Is he still here? Not deployed?”

“No,” Sharon replies, biting her lip. “And no. It's complicated.”

Steve stops, eyes widening. “He's not- he's not dead, is he? Oh God, is he dead?”

“Don't think so, I don't know, he doesn't write,” Sharon replies impatiently. “Jesus Christ, just ravage me and I'll tell you everything afterwards.”

Steve grabs her and throws her on the bed, climbing after her. “Why would he go, if he wasn't deployed?”

Sharon snorts, pulling up her chemise and spreading her legs. “It's a really long story. Stop talking about him, I don't want to think about Bucky right now.”

“I just worry,” Steve says, shrugging off his open shirt. “Is he okay? How long has he been gone?”

Sharon groans. “He's fine, he's fine, I'm sure he's fine! Just do your bloody duty as a husband already.”

Steve snorts, pushing down his pants. “You're worse than a General.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Sharon returns impatiently while Steve lowers himself between her legs, not caring to get rid off the pants entirely. “Oh, yes. Yes. Oh, I need you to do something else for me later. But I don't have the patience right now.”

Steve groans, pushing into her. “Have you been having nothing but dirty thoughts in the past four years? God, I missed you.”

“I thought about other stuff,” Sharon sighs. “But I imagined this every day. Oh God, get on with it.”

Steve smirks, whispering into her ear, “Are you going to have another beautiful baby in nine months?”

“Can't promise,” Sharon gasps. “But I certainly wouldn't mind trying.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Papa, ich bin müde,” Cathy mutters, in German which Bucky still barely understands. “Can we go home?”

“You wanted to come,” Bucky accuses. “You could have stayed home with Betty, but you said no. I can't bring you home now.”

It's the summer of 1800, Catherine is not that little anymore at her almost seven years. Prussia has just decided to become neutral in the conflict between France and Britain, just today re-signing a Declaration of Armed Neutrality with the Russians and the Danes. It's mostly about neutral commerce and a British policy to search all neutral shipping to prevent smuggling to France, which angers the above-mentioned countries. Bucky is not up high enough to have an opinion about that and given his English background definitely shouldn't. But he has to be at the ball and since Cathy begged him to go, too, now he has to get her through most of the evening.

“Ich bin müde,” repeats Cathy, yawning without holding a hand over her mouth. “This is so boring. Do you do that all the time?”

“No,” he replies, gently swatting her hand. “Usually, I do useful stuff. Don't yawn like that, we've talked about this.”

Cathy rolls her eyes but goes pale when an unfamiliar lady bows down to her. “Oh mein Gott, hast du dich verlaufen? So ein süßes Kind… Oh, Lieutenant Colonel Barnes.”

“Frau von Eichhorst,” replies Bucky. “Excuse my daughter, she is very tired.”

“You must be Katharina,” Frau von Eichhorst continues, ignoring Bucky. “My, how beautiful you are! I wish to have such beautiful children as well.”

Bucky has no desire to talk with her about her marriage, so he just waits while Cathy bites her tongue and says nothing. “When you grow up, you will be the most beautiful lady at court and you will have so many suitors,” Frau von Eichhorst tries again. “You must be so proud of her, Lieutenant Colonel Barnes.”

“Of course I am,” Bucky replies, gently nudging Cathy forward. “Come on, Cathy, say hello to Frau von Eichhorst.”

Cathy bites her tongue even harder and remains quiet, staring at the floor. Bucky sighs. “Please excuse her, Frau von Eichhorst, she is just a child and she should actually be in bed already.”

“Of course,” Frau von Eichhorst snaps. “I hope her beauty is not a reason to fail her education. Good evening.”

“Papa,” Cathy whispers when she has rushed away, clinging to his leg. “Sie quiiiiietscht.”

Bucky snorts. “Be nice to her, she is a lot richer than you. Even if her voice is a bit screeching.”

Cathy rolls her eyes. “Not a bit, very screeching! Why is she rich? She's not even pretty.”

“Her parents are rich,” Bucky explains. “And her grandparents and everyone before that.”

“I bet  _ her _ mother isn't dead,” Cathy suggests sourly.

“Be quiet,” Bucky hisses. “For God's sake. I can't change it. Would you rather I marry someone like Frau von Eichhorst?”

“I want you to marry someone  _ nice,” _ Cathy insist stubbornly. “Nice and beautiful. And also very rich.”

Bucky snorts. “Look, if someone like that existed, she certainly wouldn't marry  _ me. _ ”

“Ah, Mister Barnes!” They turn around and it's Secretary Kaulitz. “You brought your daughter, I hope she isn't bothering you. Na, Kathi, störst du deinen Vater?”

“Nein,” Cathy replies quietly, clinging to Bucky's leg. “Tu ich nicht.”

Bucky snorts. “She really wanted to come. And she can be very stubborn.”

“Well, I hope she doesn't want to accompany you to work,” Secretary Kaulitz comments. “That is no place for a little girl. This reception must be so exciting for you already.”

Cathy sticks out her chin stubbornly. “Es ist stinklangweilig.”

Bucky snorts. “Cathy! Don't talk like that.”

Secretary Kaulitz laughs. “Oh, she is quite a handful, isn't she? Look, Katharina, if you promise to behave, I will introduce you to someone very interesting. Promise?”

Cathy tilts her head in curiosity. “Who?”

“You have to promise me first,” Secretary Kaulitz chides.

Cathy rolls her eyes. “Na gut. Versprochen.”

Kaulitz crouches down, gently turning her by her shoulders. “Look this way. Can you see Herrn von Teitloff? You know Herrn von Teitloff?”

“Yes,” Cathy replies. “He doesn't have hair on his head.”

Kaulitz smiles patiently. “Don't say that, Katharina. Can you see the man he is talking to, in front of him?”

“No,” Cathy replies, straining her neck. “Where?”

“Do you see the woman with the red hairs?” Kaulitz asks, because Germans have hairs and not hair. “In the green dress. Do you see her? That's the wife of the envoy from Tsar Paul I. from Russia. And the man next to her, that's her husband,  _ Herzog _ Alexei Shostakov.”

Cathy's brows furrow, visibly calculating. “So, he is… that means he is the un- the unvoy?”

“Yes!” Kaulitz exclaims excitedly. “He is the envoy. You are very smart, little Katharina. He is a very important man. Do you want to meet him?”

Cathy clings to Bucky's leg again, anxious. “Is he nice?”

“Very nice,” Secretary Kaulitz assures her. “In fact, he has a son about your age. I'm sure he would be delighted to meet such a beautiful and smart girl.”

“Say yes, Cathy,” Bucky nudges. “You wanted to meet important people.”

Cathy continues clinging to his leg, finally nodding shyly. Bucky smiles. “Thank you, Secretary Kaulitz. Cathy, do you want me to carry you?”

“Papa!” Cathy protests. “I am a big girl. I can walk.”

“Then give me your hand,” Bucky asks, holding out his. “Yes, very good. And remember to behave. You're a big girl, you can do it.”

Cathy chews on her lip nervously while Secretary Kaulitz leads the way across the room. “Herzog Shostakov! Ich möchte Ihnen jemanden vorstellen.”

The couple turns around and Bucky's heart stops. Oh God, it's her. Of course it's her. “This is Lieutenant Colonel James Barnes. He was born in England and would thus be more comfortable if we could converse in English, if that is not a problem for you.”

“Absolutely not,” the Duke replies friendly. “Is that girl your daughter, Lieutenant Colonel Barnes?”

Thankfully, Secretary Kaulitz replies for him. Good God, he can't look at her. “Yes, that is little Katharina. She is everyone's darling here.”

“I can imagine,” the Duke replies with amusement. “Hello Katharina.”

Cathy clings to Bucky's leg again, suddenly tongue-shy. Secretary Kaulitz smiles. “I think she is intimidated. Katharina, this is  _ Herzog  _ Alexei Shostakov, the envoy of Tsar Paul I. of Russia, and his lovely and very accomplished wife  _ Herzogin _ Natalia Shostakov. Did I say that correctly?”

“Almost,” Natalia replies gently. “It's  _ Herzogin _ Shostakova. But please, call me Natasha.”

She's the charm offensive. She probably negotiated much of the Declaration. She's probably the  _ actual  _ envoy. “See, my darling,” the Duke suggests. “We could have brought our son as well. He could have met the lovely Katharina.”

It's incredible that he is an actual normal person, a bit handsome even, not even old, in his thirties, and very cultivated and smooth. “He is so young still,” Natalia replies. “He is better off with his governess. Little Katharina must be tired as well.”

Cathy tugs on Bucky's hand urgently. “Papa!” she hisses. “Sie ist  _ wunderschön _ .”

Everyone smiles. Cathy turns nervously, realizing she was not as sneaky as intended. “My dear Katharina,” Secretary Kaulitz suggests. “ _ Herzogin _ Shostakova might actually understand you better than your father.”

“Yes, she is,” the Duke agrees, taking Natasha's hand and kissing it. “Wunderschön. Your mother must be very beautiful as well, Katya.”

“Yes,” Bucky replies neutrally. “She was.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that,” the Duke says, sounding genuinely affected.

“So, what brings you here, Lieutenant Colonel Barnes?” Natalia asks. “As an Englishman?”

“It's a long story,” Bucky replies hesitantly. “I wouldn't want to bore you with it.”

“I'll guess it was due to love,” the Duke suggests with a polite grin. “As evidenced by your little daughter. How old are you, little one?”

Cathy hugs Bucky's leg again, not replying. “She is six, almost seven,” Bucky replies. “She should be able to tell you herself, at that age.”

“Our son is four,” the Duke replies, gently touching Natasha's belly. Bucky suddenly feels very cold. “And without wanting to… jinx it, as you say, we have another wonderful baby on the way.”

“What is the name of your son?”, Bucky asks.

Natalia smiles. “Ivan. Our little Vanyusha.”

The duke looks so delighted. He's actually in love with her. Then again, how could he not be? “He's a true delight. Oh, if you would excuse me, I should go and talk with the Danish envoy. Secretary Kaulitz, will you accompany me?”

The secretary bows. “Of course.  _ Herzogin  _ Shostakova, it is always such a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, my dear Secretary,” Natasha replies, feigning a curtsey. “I shall see you later, my darling.”

“I would never leave without you, my dear,” the Duke replies, kissing her hand again, then extends a hand towards Catherine. “Goodbye, little Katya. If we meet again, I'm sure you will already have found a very good husband.”

Cathy takes his hand reluctantly, then lets it go and hides behind Bucky. Duke Shostakov smiles. “A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Colonel Barnes. I wish you and your daughter all the best.”

“Thank you,” Bucky replies quietly, bowing his head, and then they're already walking away.

Natalia is staring at Cathy in fascination. “I didn't know you were expecting,” Bucky says quietly. “And still you undertook such a long travel.”

“Oh, we were in the East before, in former Poland-Lithuania,” she replies, sipping on her glass. “So not that far. And I am merely three months in.”

“Papa!” Cathy demands. “Heb mich hoch.”

“I thought you were a big girl,” Bucky remarks, lifting her up and hoisting her on his right hip. “Are you so tired?”

“'m not tired,” Cathy mumbles. “I want to see better.”

“How strategic,” Natalia remarks, now on eye-level with the girl. “Tell me honestly, my little Katya, what do you think of the Duke?”

Cathy's eyes widen. “Of the Duke?”

“Yes,” Natalia confirms. “You can whisper it if you want.”

“I think he is nice,” Cathy replies hesitantly. “But he said I should marry and I don't want to.”

“That's still a long shot away,” Natalia assures her. “When I was seven, I did not want to marry either.”

“I think he likes you,” Cathy adds, getting bolder. “He even made you two babies.”

Natalia laughs. “Oh, Cathy. Yes, he did. We are married, you know.”

Cathy leans towards Bucky's ear, covering it with both hands so nobody else will hear her. “Papa! She is very nice. And I think she is rich, too. Why don't you marry her?”

Bucky snorts. “But, Cathy, she is already married to Duke Shostakov.”

Cathy scrunches up her nose. “Does that mean you can't marry her too?”

“Yes,” Bucky replies, failing not to look at Natalia. “That's exactly what that means.”

“That's stupid,” Cathy announces, slunking in Bucky's arms. “She could have been my new Mama.”

Natalia, to her credit, doesn't start crying. “Oh, my dear. What happened to your mother?”

“She died,” Cathy replies matter-of-factly. “In- in bed.”

“In childbirth,” Bucky corrects quietly. “Yes.”

“I was very small,” Cathy explains with gravity, showing it with her thumb and index finger. “That's how small I was.”

“Oh my, Cathy, you have certainly grown a lot,” Natasha remarks. “You were so small, and now you are so big.”

“I'm very big,” Cathy agrees, yawning. “I'm a big girl.”

“I'm sure your mother is watching you from somewhere,” Natasha suggests. “And I'm sure she is very proud of you.”

“I'm very proud of her, too,” Bucky adds, pushing her up a bit.

“Where does she go when you have to work?” Natalia asks anxiously. “Who looks after her?”

“She has a governess, Betty,” Bucky explains. Cathy's head has dropped on his shoulder. “She is very nice as well, isn't she, Cathy?”

Cathy nods half-heartedly, with her eyes closed. “And she will receive a sufficient endowment?” Natalia continues asking. “When she marries?”

“Don't worry,” Bucky replies. “Queen Louise of Mecklenburg-Strelitz has taken a liking to our little Catherine and personally instated a fund which she accesses once she's sixteen.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Natasha replies with relief. “So she can marry who she wants.”

“You're a little heavy, Cathy,” Bucky whispers. “I'll have to put you down again.”

Cathy protests but can't do anything against it. Natalia crouches down, in her expensive dress, hugging her. Cathy looks surprised.

“You are wonderful,” Natalia whispers with a shaky voice. “And I love you so, so much.”

Cathy's eyes widen. Natalia holds her a little longer, then lets go and carefully gets up again, holding her stomach. “I hope you will do whatever you can to ensure she receives a proper education.”

“Whatever I can,” Bucky agrees. “But she is just a child, so she gets to play, too.”

“Of course,” Natasha replies. “Of course. Whatever makes her happy. Oh, she is such a wonderful child.”

Cathy steps forward and cautiously tugs on her dress. Natalia bows down in surprise. “I like you too,” Cathy whispers loudly.

A tear escapes Natalia's eye but no words form in her mouth. The duke is approaching them again, so she wipes it away quickly. “My dear, if- are you okay?”

“Yes,” Natalia replies quickly, wiping at her eyes again. “Yes. I just got a little emotional because- she is such a wonderful girl. My God, can't we adopt her?”

“I'm afraid Lieutenant Colonel Barnes will object to that,” the Duke says gently, taking her hands. “But you will have another wonderful child in only half a year. It might even be a girl.”

“Of course,” Natasha replies, calmer. “Of course.”

“Now, please, the Danish envoy wants to talk to you,” Duke Shostakov adds. “As much as I hate to separate you from the lovely Catherine.”

“Goodbye, Katarina,” Natasha whispers. “Mister- Lieutenant Colonel Barnes, it was a pleasure.”

“All mine,” Bucky replies, bowing his head. “And Catherine was very pleased to meet you too.”

Cathy is half-hiding behind his legs again. Natalia smiles at her again, then tears her eyes away. “Maybe we will see you again. Maybe with our son.”

“My dear, the Danish envoy is waiting,” Shostakov urges.

Natalia straightens her shoulders, then brushes past them, expensive green silk and brilliant red hair. She truly seems happy, in her perfect life, rich and beautiful and with child.

“And you really can't marry her?” Catherine asks again.

Bucky sighs. “No. I really can't.”

“That's sad,” Cathy remarks. “I like her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end! Thanks to everyone who suffered through the sadness all the way to the end. If anyone is interested, I'm working on a modern day cop AU right now (same pairings) but that could still take a loooong while. Stay tuned!


End file.
